


Here Is Peace

by Nao



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Rewrite, F/F, F/M, Gen, Jon and Sansa Make A Good Team, Political Jon Snow, Post-Episode: s06e10 The Winds of Winter, Stark Family Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 36,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24327049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nao/pseuds/Nao
Summary: Jon knows one thing, if nothing else.  He never should have left.
Relationships: Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Davos Seaworth & Jon Snow, Gilly/Samwell Tarly, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Jorah Mormont & Daenerys Targaryen, Petyr Baelish & Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Sansa Stark
Comments: 109
Kudos: 206





	1. East or West

**Author's Note:**

> I tried for a whole year to put Game of Thrones behind me and couldn't. I hope you all enjoy the ride as I try to work through why the story ended up the way it did.

He had found that honor counted for so little in the world. So he considered the problem, casting honor aside. 

Was it right to smother the last flicker of hope in the fight against the Night King, or was it smarter to concede and cherish what little time remained?Time was so precious, after all, now that the Red Woman had gone.What could measure up against the gift of time?The feel of her eyes, her voice, those rare instances of her hand—those were worth more than honor. 

To disregard honor, to stay home like a coward.Or leave like a coward.To leave on the table a good chance of finding the tools the North, all the realms had need of, or to leave the place you’d finally earned at the table, at her side, open for any man brazen enough to try and take it. 

“I will ask a great service of you,” Jon heard himself say, the words firm and grounded, dancing delicate counterpoint to the trembling, worthless thoughts in his head. “Lord Baelish.”

The room rustled, furs and leather creaking against the ironwood of the benches. Baelish, Littlefinger, _Petyr_ , lingered against the stones for a moment until the pressure of the room’s eyes all lay heavy against him. Then he straightened and bowed, lips thinning into a sharp smile. 

“My lor— Your Grace,” he corrected himself, bowing lower still. “The Vale and mine ownself are yours to command.” He swept himself upright, and did not bother to hide the obvious slide of his eyes from Jon’s face to over his shoulder. 

Jon watched him and pulled a smile. “As you say Lord Baelish. In which case, go to this Daenerys Targaryen, in our stead. Bring her our message of peace and our hopes of trade. Return to us, my lord, when you have her answer. The Vale and the North have need of you.” 

Baelish’s gaze made its return from over his shoulder and Jon sustained it, and kept his smile. Words had weight in the North, though Baelish seemed to have forgotten it. A request for service from the King in the North, no matter that the Vale had not taken formal oath as their bannermen, could not be taken lightly. Could not be refuted lightly. Not after the grand show he’d put on not even a fortnight past, of welcoming oathbreakers back into his service, of forgiving the betrayals of the past. 

“I shall endeavor, my king, to serve you well.” Baelish melted through the press of bodies, back to the wall. 

“Then I thank each of you for your counsel today. Each of you will be summoned as Lord Baelish makes his preparations, and given your own share in the duties that face us all.” A rumble, low and relieved, rose gradually. Jon swam against the current toward the high table, shoulders shuddering under the hands that clapped upon them. At the top of the room, Sansa sat forward, gloved fingertips pressed against her lips. She stared, blue eyes boring into him like gimlets. 

Before Jon could do more than gaze back, in his ear was Littlefinger’s voice. “Your Grace, I would beg a word with you.”

Jon turned then and looked up into Baelish’s face before shrugging a shoulder, and swinging around for the doors. He strode toward them, tightening his gloves down over his knuckles, nodding greetings, as he went, mind already leaping ahead to what Littlefinger could possibly wish to say. Payment for services rendered would like as not figure into it, no matter what the actual words said might be. 

He and the Vale deserved reward as much as anyone, that was true enough. Jon shouldered through the doors, plunging into the bright searing cold. He sped his way toward the gates to the Old Keep, to the godswood, trusting that Baelish wanted whatever he wanted bad enough to keep pace. 

At the base of the tree, Jon drew still, listening. Not too far behind him, boots crunched on the packed snow. When they too halted, Jon spoke quietly, “You wished to speak Lord Baelish. On what topic?”

“One beneficial to us all, no doubt. As such things should be.”

Jon tilted his head back, sighing as quietly as he could make it, and did not reply.Baelish’s boots creaked on the snow again. Let the man wonder. Was it nerves that held his tongue? Fear of appearing foolish? Reluctance to pay? 

“Your Grace,” Baelish continued, “we have had so little time together, and already you are sending me away.” He paused again, but Jon folded his cloak around himself and stared up into the tree.Of course Littlefinger had seen through him, straightaway. Sending Littlefinger to Dragonstone placed him in danger from Cersei, from the Targaryen girl, and left his hold on the Vale and the Arryn boy weak.

“Though I am appreciative of the trust you put in me, my affairs cannot be left to chance. The Knights of the Vale are here, protecting your lands, your castle, your family.” He leaned against the word, and Jon fought an urge to twist around and face him. 

Instead, “If you had such concerns now, surely you would have had such concerns before you rode to the aid of my sister. All men know the danger of leaving a half trained boy with none as guard or guide, behind. The realm has learned from Joffrey, and surely none so much as you. Speak plain, my lord.”

“Ah, a plain spoken man like your father,” Littlefinger replied.After a long moment, he spoke again, “For Lady Stark’s sake, you took yourself off to the Wall. For her daughter, you left it. I, too, would do anything for Cat and her daughter. We have that in common, wouldn’t you say?” Baelish moved as he spoke, until they stood shoulder to shoulder, with barely a breath between them. 

“Aye. You protected Lady Sansa well enough,” Jon replied, doubtful of the truth in those words. Sansa avoided Littlefinger, his gaze, his presence. Yet in their need, she writes and he comes, like a prince in a song, even he and she both knew him for what he was. 

“Protection she will have, and can depend on. She was galvanized, Lady Sansa was, by the Bolton’s betrayal.” 

Littlefinger spoke as if he thought Jon did not know what that betrayal was. As if he did not know, could not guess the reason for her silences, where laughter once flowered. 

“She may have it in the Vale,” he continued. “Far from the Night King you speak of, unassailable by any armed force that could be summoned.”

Jon cut him short, “But not safe from dragonfire.” He turned, eyed Baelish narrowly. “The offer, I accept you make it in good faith, my lord. But my father taught us one lesson above all else. Even you may know it.” 

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. My sister is that Stark. She rules Winterfell, and it is here she remains.”

Jon twitched his cloak around him tighter, and watched Baelish’s expression. Little and less than little changed as the other man spoke again.

“You are the King in the North. The blood of the Starks is in you, is it not? Otherwise, your father would never have brought you home. No, Your Grace. If you care for Lady Sansa’s well-being, you should send her with me. In a moon I will have her in the Vale—warm and well fed and safe, while we solve the problems of the realms together, you and I.”

He smiled, bowing again, and retreated slowly. When he spun on a heel and hastened away, Jon gave into a shudder that slithered its way from his crown to his toes. 


	2. Windows Into Men's Souls

Swords clashing drew him deeper into the keep, and Jon did little to fight the call. The all-consuming, despairing anger that had propelled him during the battle for Winterfell had died within him and simmered low, after the pyres had sent the last of their burdens to the gods.One last flush of red, searing heat had flashed through him once one of Lyanna Mormont’s Bear Islanders stumbled across the remains of Ramsay Bolton. A white hot urge to take what remained of Bolton’s head had passed through him then, but sense prevailed. 

The Umbers, the Karstarks and the poor sods the Boltons had pressed into service were dead nearly to a man. There was little need for further retribution. Not after the death their chosen lord had met. To die like little more than a piece of meat for the dogs would send a message just as well as a head on a spike. Better even. 

So it was that the sound of swords ringing off each other was the first time in long months that Jon felt the rumble of curiosity.Following the impulse, he lingered at the back of a circle of men, hardly noticed by any of them.Those who realized, he hushed with a hand, and stood watching with them as one of the free folk—one of Tormund’s, if his waving fiery hair was anything to go by—swung his half blade at the open flank of one of the Knights of the Vale. The knight swerved away, fisted off-hand catching the wilding in the nose. He careened wildly into the crowd, jeers and laughter growing. The knight waited courteously, honorably. It was a mistake. The wilding put up his blade and dove head first straight at the other man’s torso, tackling them both to the ground. 

A hint of something sweet floated over the sweat and woodsmoke, and a hand fit itself inside his elbow. “What industriousness we have here,” Sansa drawled. Jon flicked a look at her. She smiled, the small, private smile she would share with him when truly amused. He returned it, and watched the end of the match, distracted from the violence in front of him.The cheers and the laughter seemed faded, quieter somehow.Before too long, the wilding heaved the knight to his feet, both of them undulating like sails in the wind. Then the knight raised the wilding’s fist in the air, and the men of the crowd cheered their approval. 

Jon edged away then, covering Sansa’s hand with his, and held her to his side until they were free of the crush of bodies and nearly inside the castle proper. “Progress,” he said, pushing open the doors, and let her hand free of his arm.

“If you can call bloodying each other’s noses progress, then yes, I suppose you’re right,” Sansa replied, preceding him into the hall. Jon watched her as they traveled the length of the hall. Some of her women approached with cloth in their hands, and Sansa gave them a few words of compliment over their stitching. A small boy, with bright eyes so reminiscent of Bran his chest hurt, darted to her with a rolled scroll in one fist. She pulled a pouch from her sleeve and gifted him a sweet, in exchange. He bobbed a bow to her and ran, already cramming the treat into his mouth. 

When finally, they were free, Jon pushing open doors as Sansa attempted to read and walk at the same time, they were already halfway to Father’s solar, and without needing to look at one another, continued the rest of the way there in silence. Inside, Jon swung the door shut behind them and tugged off his gloves and cloak. Sansa pulled hers free more slowly, the scroll rolling back up on the table, finally finished. 

Jon settled before the fire, stoked it until it crackled, and prepared to wait. Sansa would say her piece when she felt it time and not a moment before. 

“Petyr, Lord Royce, half a dozen others have been to speak with me. Another asks for an audience on a matter he knows will be of great import to me,” she began, and Jon bit down an urge to ask her when she’d begun to call him by his name. It would not do to ask why. It did not matter, not truly. 

“To say what?”

“To ask me to come away to the Vale.”

Jon made no reply. It was the obvious move, and one that he hadn’t seen the need to discuss. Sansa’s answer would be more obvious still. And more prettily couched than he could ever hope to achieve.

“Nothing to say?” She asked, in a voice gone challenging.

“What is there to say? You’ll not go.”

“You knew of this? And did not think to warn me that this was the price Petyr was going to ask?”

“I knew, aye, and told him the same as I tell you now. That you are the Stark in Winterfell, and must remain. That’d he come to you, I’d guessed as much. That he would convince others to ask you too makes no matter.”

“No matter? You did not think that I would perhaps be of a different mind? That I might know Littlefinger better than you? That I might be able to predict a little better than you what lengths he will go to have his way?” 

The fire was near hot enough to burn, and Jon shifted away. It was a fair comment. But her experience of the man mattered little in the face of the fact that she was the Lady of Winterfell, father’s heir and Robb’s. 

“Your place is here. In the North. Not in some Southron holdfast. So no Sansa,” Jon heaved a breath, unaccountable anger stiffening his back, “I saw no need to consult you. The answer is clear. Whatever price he wishes to extract, it is not for you to pay. You’ll not be a hostage for Littlefinger.”

He drew a breath, meaning to go on, and stopped as her eyes dropped from his own to the floor. She met his gaze again quick enough, but it stopped the anger dead. 

After a moment, she slid into a chair and covered her lips with her hands. From behind them, her voice emerged muffled, stripped of feeling. “In the Vale, I am loved, now that they know I am Ned Stark’s daughter. Now that they have been given a chance for glory through me. They would not harm me.”

“It is not the Vale I am concerned about,” Jon leaned on the table, one hand reaching for and spreading out their map. It showed the houses that ignored their call, each of their holdings marked out minutely with Sansa’s fine script. Jon draws a finger along the kingsroad, tracing the path they all would need take to reach the mountains where the Arryn boy had his seat. “The road too is a danger, Sansa.” She shook her head, and Jon fought back the irritation that wished to boil over.

“You say they love you well in the Vale. Aye, I know that sort of calf love. How many of my Black Brothers knew of the plot to kill me and said nothing of warning? How many petty lairds of the court in Kings Landing owed their lives to our Father and yet watched his head roll? Too many.” 

“He will have his due,” was all of Sansa’s reply, the fire casting shadows over her face.Jon threw himself into a chair across from her. It would have been easy to run. To ride as far South as South went. Simpler. But she hadn’t wanted it, and he could no more deny her then, than he could now. Excepting this moment. 

“He may. If you cannot outface him.” That drew her attention, and her hands fell to the table. Jon gave her an encouraging look. “You asked me to listen to you and I have.And I remember, Sansa, all that you have done to bring us home.You are the one who brought the Vale, you alone.With a letter,” Jon laughed, cheerlessly.It grated to remember how stubborn he’d been, how he must have cornered her, to make her extend a hand to Littlefinger.He went on, “I do not know the man, and in truth I do not want to, but there must be something we can use to distract him.”

Sansa surveyed him uncertainly. “He lusts for power, above all. You can grant him lands as reward for his service, and demand that he outfit it to defend me and the North on its eastern coast.”

“Lands,” Jon repeated, reluctance like bile at the back of his throat. “The Dreadfort you mean.”

She got to her feet, frustration obvious on her face, and reached a finger toward the Dreadfort.“You are giving him something, by giving him nothing.You know and I know what condition the Dreadfort is in, and all of the Bolton’s holdings.What few men there that would know how to revictual the castle and succor those who work the land, they are much too busy here at Winterfell.And,” she went on more happily, “if he takes the Dreadfort, he foreswears his oath to Cersei and the Iron Throne.He cannot be Sweetrobin’s protector and Lord of Harrenhal and Lord of the Dreadfort.Not when Cersei has declared war on us.”

Jon pushed himself up from the table to pace.“He may see it differently.”

Sansa replied, simply, “He will not.Titles are meaningless to him, unless they help him toward his goal.Harrenhal has played its part and let him marry my Aunt Lysa.The Vale gave him Robin.Even without being Protector of the Vale, Robin will still be his.That is his way.”Her voice trailed away.She sat, once more self-contained, every movement controlled.He hated seeing it, even if when her demons quieted enough for her to loosen the rein on her tongue she would press about him from all sides until he gave in.It was preferable to this deathly silence. 

Into the silence, Jon offered a thought, knowing it would at least frustrate her.“Sellswords.”

Sansa, alive once more, threw him an irritated look.“Dead of the cold and disease and hunger. You said it yourself. A Southron army has never come north. Sellswords from the east would not fare any better.” 

Jon nodded again, pleased that it had been easier this time to rouse her, and bent to gathered his cloak and gloves. “For the evening meal, ask Littlefinger to dine with us. We tell him then, where all can see.” 

Sansa agreed in a murmur, and saw him to the door.

* * *

“You honor me.” He said it as though he’d said the words a hundred times before, each time more meaningless than the last. 

Baelish sat between them at the high table. It was an honor his father had given to the men of his household, visitors from holdfasts, even tradesmen from Winterstown. He settled, smile spreading over his face, and leaned in close to Jon’s ear.

“The evening meal spent beside you and your sister, Your Grace, I could not imagine time more well spent. I have taken the liberty of speaking with Lord Royce, and he has agreed that if I am to go to treat with the dragon queen, then provision must be made for Sweetrobin.”

He turned to Sansa, hand reaching toward where his goblet lay near hers. Jon watched as Baelish’s fingers brushed Sansa’s.Her hand leapt away to take up her own goblet, but Littlefinger bothered not at all to apologize. “My lady, your cousin grows tall, you shall hardly recognize him. He has the Arryn look exactly, dark hair, dark eyes. Quite handsome.”

Sansa murmured too low for Jon to hear, though Littlefinger bent close enough to whisper some reply. Jon twitched his fingers around his own cup and tossed back a gulp of the ale. It settled sour in his belly. Around him, the men at arms, the maids, the children ate their dinners, chatter rose and fell, as though outside a storm was not growing that might kill them all. 

_You have to be smarter than Father. You need to be smarter than Robb. She was good; she was kind, and you killed her._ The words tumbled around in his mind; sometimes he dreamed them. Sansa for Robb, cut to ribbons after trusting that other men feared the gods and would keep their oaths and their traditions. Sometimes it was Arya, her neck on the block, about to die for telling the truth. Sometimes it was him, burning, because he would not bend.

“Lady Mormont,” Jon called, cutting across the uproar of voices. The girl turned to him, her child’s face bright with some happiness. Jon gripped his cup tighter, forced a smile onto his face. “A question for you.”

“I’ll answer if I can, Your Grace,” she replied. Beside him, Jon felt Baelish shift. 

“How have you rewarded the loyalty of your men who fought under your banner in the battle for Winterfell?” Jon asked. 

The child stood, brows drawing down over her eyes. She flicked a glance at the maester who shadowed her, and he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Land, for those who had no holdings of their own, on Bear Island. That way they can start families of their own.” Jon raised his cup to her and she sat, as the room thundered its approval of her answer. 

“And you, Lord Hornwood? How goes your resettlement?”

“Well, your grace, very well. Winter’s barely begun, and those lads are already away home now to do what they must before the deep snows come.” He sat, and more laughter and shouting greeted this. Jon let it pass, then raised his voice again. 

“My lords, ladies,” Jon stood, “The North remembered that in Winter, we must protect ourselves. Look after one another. The Boltons forgot, and they lost. In their place, we have the Protector of the Vale, who guards his stepson’s seat from the Lannister’s. Who guarded our Lady of Winterfell, as best he could. As we have always done before, when there is great service, there must be great reward.”

He stepped away from the table and turned to face Baelish. Sansa rose too, laying a hand on the man’s arm. His eyes jumped, like a frightened animal’s, to her own, but he followed her readily enough to the other side of the table and knelt.

“Once, the Kings in the North welcomed a Southron house into the fold. They have guarded our White Harbor ever since. Tonight, we will do it once more. Petyr Baelish, will you take oath as bannerman to the North?”

Baelish faced him, and only he could see the man’s eyes. They were the eyes of an enemy, but then as Sansa rounded the table and stood at his side, the look softened, considering. 

“Will you take up your arms and armor on behalf of the North, if the need arises? Will you stand with the North, now and always?”

“You honor me, Your Grace. You may place your faith in me. I am yours to command.”

“Rise, Petyr Baelish, Lord of the Dreadfort.”

He rose, acknowledged the clapping with another of his fixed, sharp smiles. Jon smiled too, “We welcome you my lord. Though I know the Vale will be sorry to see you leave them.” Baelish’s hands paused in the midst of dusting at his knees. 

Jon pulled back the man’s chair from where it lay nestled between his and Sansa’s and waved a hand to beckon the man sit.


	3. No Prince Shall Love You So Well

“The ease with which trading came did on occasion make him wish that he’d been born to a different sort of family. One where the fact of his birth had not threatened his father’s Lady, nor her trueborn children,” Sam paused for a breath and glanced at Little Sam. 

“For that was what ruling seemed to be. A series of trades, where if the gods were kind, each man came away with something of value. It was, he could admit it, an analogy a little lacking in reality. Men were creatures of habit, and changing habit forcibly, no matter if their lives were bettered, tended toward outcomes bloody and grievous. _”_

“Then what says he?” Gilly asked. Sam glanced at her, jumping. The scroll rolled back on itself, trapping his finger. The direwolf sigil reappeared, and Sam frowned at it rather than reading out the rest of the letter. 

“More about ruling. Boring stuff.” Sam stumbled to his feet, hands massaging at his knees. Sitting all evening scouring books, even with Gilly to help things along was murder on them. There was a salve that he’d been conniving at obtaining the ingredients for. With a little more effort, he’d be able to make it in their chambers. 

Gilly glared at him, and Sam froze with one foot halfway over the bench. 

“Don’t you lie to me Samwell Tarly.”

“I’m not lying. Just a man’s thoughts should be private to his friends after a certain point, is all.” He hopped until both feet were back on the floor, and shuffled around the room until he could cup little Sam’s head where it lay tousled on the coverlet. 

“You don’t have friends,” Gilly replied, the dry sound of parchment flipping betraying that she had already returned to their hunt for more mentions of dragonglass. 

“Oh thanks for that,” Sam replied, not stung in the slightest. He had complained of it often enough, that no one would partner with him in lessons, invite him to drinks at the alehouses accustomed to the rough manners and loud voices of the students of the Citadel. The fuss he’d made about the Night King and the reports from the Night’s Watch kept shoulders turned away and doors closed, and it drove him to fury.At first.

It had driven him to larceny, more recently.

Which was rather pleasing, in some ways. After all the years at Castle Black of never having to ask to read a book, a return to books being forbidden chafed. Having the bravery to take what was needed, consequences be damned made Sam rather proud of himself. Pyp would probably have approved. Grenn too.

He thought of Jon then, after having done his best not to. The rest of his letter could not be read aloud. Even to Gilly. Jon murdered. Jon _revived_. Jon leaving the Night’s Watch and Castle Black to return home and have a crown put on his curly head. Jon giving up the chance to secure the mountain of dragonglass, himself. It smacked of a story, but the letter could not be forged. Only Jon’s handwriting looked so messy. 

A loss for what to say in response had driven him to Little Sam’s bed. Sam hunched over him, worriedly patting at the boy’s hair. If the walkers came, and the North wasn’t prepared to defend itself, the rest of the country stood not a chance. But Jon seemed as though he had little intention of leaving Winterfell. Ever. 

That was not the Jon he knew, nor the Lord Commander he had raised. Though death could strip anyone of their daring, even a man like Jon. Sam slid a finger over the boy’s hair, tucking it neatly behind his ears. He would give _anything_ , to return North. To see for himself the truth of the matter, and help if there were a way. But to do it was a risk. He’d taken Gilly and their son this far, and to return would place them in the path of the creatures, that no one would believe in, there were no tools to fight, and not enough people to do the fighting. 

He could not do it in all conscience. Jon would not want it of him. Half the reason Jon had sent him to the Citadel had been for the safety it would provide for all three of them. 

“Yon Jon Snow sounds sad. Was his mother cruel like your father and mine?” Gilly asked, and Sam sat straight.

Carefully, he replied, “I think she must have been afraid her lord would favor his bastard over his true born heir. Of course, it didn’t matter in the end. Jon is King in the North and her son is betrayed and buried.”

"You Southrons are strange about such things. Because Jon Snow had a different mother, how is he a threat? What would he do? Kill his brothers and sisters?” She turned to him, frown drawing down the corners of her lips. Sam found a smile for her. 

“Well not every couple is like you and I. And in great houses, bastards have been known to be used as scapegoats for bannermen who wish a lord more to their liking...”

Sam stumbled to a halt, one hand groping for the letter. He shook it open, eyes racing over the words. He’d nearly reached the end before he found it again.

_I’ve asked Littlefinger to sail to Dragonstone on behalf of the North and the Vale, to sue for peace and an agreement to trade. He is as they say, but he has shown himself loyal to the lady my sister. Few choices remain for envoys, and he is persuasive enough._

“Gilly will you bring me the parchment? I have letters to write.” Sam squeezed the letter in his hand. It was possible he was wrong. Yet, it had happened once already, and this felt like a prelude to it happening once more. The best way to prevent another betrayal was allies. There were no brothers here whose minds he could sway. He had, in a way, something better. His father’s name and his own status as a man chosen for training at the Citadel. 

Gilly approached with a roll of parchment under her arm, and settled it and a writing board over his knees. “Should I borrow a raven?”

“Four,” Sam replied, mind already running ahead to what he would say.There would need to be one for the Martells of Dorne, another for the Tullys, one for Lady Olenna. And the last for the Targaryen herself, Daenerys. 

If he could not leave that was one thing. That did not mean he must keep silent. 

* * *

“There is little for you to do this eve Tarly. You may as well get yourself home to that girl of yours.” 

Sam fumbled the letters he’d been stacking at the edge of the Archmaester’s desk and bent, swiping to pick them up before they landed on the floor and smeared. When he rose, letters clutched in each hand, the Archmaester was gazing at him, sternly. His eyes crinkled around the edges and then he smiled. 

“Thinking about her already I see. Good chap. Be off.” 

Sam swallowed against the dryness in his throat. “You... you knew about my Gilly?” 

The maester turned back to his writing. “You brought her and the boy on your first day, if you recall. It’s rather hard to miss a _baby_ in the hall.” 

“I see,” Sam cleared his throat and then ventured a question as he laid the letters flat once more. “Maester, had you given thought to my request?” 

“You have made progress, of course. You could take the tests tomorrow if you wished. Failure,” the maester eyed him briefly and Sam felt his face redden, “is not uncommon. I would rather you stay the course. Focus yourself. Your time will come.” 

Sam scrubbed his hands against his gown. There was little sense in staying the course when not one of the fools in the Citadel would lift their heads from their lecterns to answer questions. He was full up, he had told Gilly only yesterday, with the deliberating and the determinations and damnable discussions. If he had a chain, they would have to listen. They couldn’t dismiss him as an apprentice at all after he’d proven himself.

“With respect Archmaester, Maester Aemon and the Lord Commander of the Nights Watch both believed that I would need not much time at all at the Citadel before I’d gained my chain. I would like to do them both proud.” He managed to keep his voice steady through that, and even met the maester’s eye, when he turned around fully on his stool.

“Aemon. A renegade if there ever was one. You know whose brother he was, of course. Perhaps the realms would’ve been better with him at the helm, none can say.What I can say is this, Samwell Tarly. Targaryens were a curse to this land, and we sent Aemon to the Wall for a reason. Do not make us regret taking you on.” 

He waved a hand dismissively toward the door, and despite himself, Sam shuffled through it, swinging it shut behind him.After a moment, he shifted away down the hall, one hand rifling into one of his pockets and pulling out a scrap of parchment to scribble on.He’d just barely been able to hold the important bits in his head while speaking to the Archmaester.Writing them down now would at least help later. 

Sam stumbled in his haste and dropped his parchment.He reached for it, but a gloved hand grasped it first and held it out to him.Sam stretched a hand to take it, but a voice shouted at him. 

“Tarly!Don’t touch that!He’s got the ‘scale.”The apprentice rushed toward them and herded the man away.As he was guided the other way down the hall, to the quarantine cells, the man looked over his shoulder and offered an _Apologies friend_ that had Sam taking a step toward him from the simple familiarity of his voice.After a moment, he realized that the paper was gone, with all the notes he’d written about the Archmaester’s letters. 

“Seven hells.”

* * *

“I had a terrible time figuring out where they’d placed you Ser…,” Sam trailed off after entering the cell, tray of ointments balanced in one arm. 

“I am no Ser, not anymore.My name is Jorah Mormont.”

“Well Jorah, I have brought you some treatments to try on your greyscale,” Sam near dropped the tray on the low stone bench, and fought to put on his gloves smoothly.The Lord Commander’s son here at the Citadel, with greyscale no less.And with information in his hand, Sam swept a surreptitious look around the small room, that he should not ever have laid eyes on.That thought let him ignore the nerves that bubbled grotesquely in his belly.

“One your fellows came to apply some foul smelling herbs not long hence.Are there supposed to be so many treatments in one day?”Mormont settled, leaning one shoulder against the wall. 

“Well, they do like to try as many treatments as possible.”

“Is that right?”Jorah watched him closely for a moment then moved to sit on the bed.

“I’m quite certain,” Jorah began, as Sam approached and delicately unthreaded the ties of his cuff, “that apprentices at the Citadel have much else to do besides tend to impossible cases like mine.” 

“Impossible cases? There are records showing healing of the greyscale, not fifty years past. And more recent than those are the records of Stannis Baratheon’s daughter, Shireen. No one is quite sure what did it, but there she was, alive and quite bright they say.” 

Underneath his prying fingers, the extent of the scale had been revealed as he spoke. It was a terrible case. It covered even the poor man’s heart. San frowned at it, then poked a finger at the edge of the mass. It squished, and cracked and oozed under the pressure like a wound festering with rot. 

“You have a curious turn of phrase. What happened to the girl?” Mormont asked, wincing as Sam reached for a set of pincers. 

Sam busied his hands preparing the unguents he would apply after peeling back the top layer of scale. “I shall tell you if you tell me what you thought of my notes,” he said finally, on a little thrill at having been so brazen. He’d worried, quite unnecessarily. This was a man resigned to his fate, if there ever was one. Even if he wished to speak to someone, no one would believe the ramblings off a man suffering from greyscale. 

“If I didn’t know better, I would say you worked for the Spider,” Mormont replied. 

“Sorry, no,” Sam replied, distracted. He’d read, in between worrying, in some of the books that he wasn’t supposed to read, about the other treatments for greyscale. The treatments that had slowed, though not stopped, its spread were few and far in between. Though at the Citadel what would be an exotic to a healer in the country was commonplace. He’d laid his hands on the oil easily enough, though the other apprentices had looked at him oddly. Some of the texts said for the person to drink it, but that seemed silly. The scale was atop the skin, the oil ought to go there. He raised the pincers and dipped a brush in the pot of oil, then stood there, the oil dripping onto the table as he hesitated. 

“Are you planning to start someday?” Mormont asked. Sam stirred uneasily. 

“She died,” Sam blurted. 

After a long moment, Mormont turned a little to look up at him. “That’s alright. If you’re willing to try, then so am I. I’ll even give you back your paper, if that’ll make you feel better.” He shifted, other hand reaching for a leather pouch that’d been lying on his rolled bedding. Sam watched him, guiltily. 

“You don’t have to. When I’ve rid you of the greyscale, give it to me then,” Sam replied, finally. 

Mormont gave him a brief smile, and settled the pouch by his side. 


	4. the body of a weak and feeble Woman

“You look well this morn, my lady,” Petyr stepped into the group that had gathered around Sansa to give their reports about grain, seeds, horses. She raised her eyes to his, and he gave her a smile. Nothing. Like a great frozen lake, the only thing he saw reflected in her eyes was himself. 

“Thank you Lord Baelish,” was her reply. “You have come to give your report, I presume. Walk with us, and tell us of your preparations to meet this Daenerys Targaryen.”

“As it please you my lady.” He streamed through the crush of men, fitting himself next to her side. She shifted to allow him space at her elbow and strode on.

“They say she is beautiful, rich in ships, gold, and slaves,” he said, watching her watch everything but him. “Terrible, as all her kind are.”

She pursued that, idly. “Her kind?”

“Targaryens. They conquered this country, and kept their grip on all of our necks for generations. With dragons, which this Targaryen is said to have. Three of them, if the tales are true.”

“Dragons. Tales for children Baelish. Lady Stark has no time for stuff and nonsense.” Glover glowered at him from behind his beard, when Petyr turned a glance over his shoulder. 

A belligerent. And directionless with it. Easily influenced by those with authority and the power to enforce their will. The reports had been most accurate about these remaining lords of the North. 

“Tales which are patently true,” he replied. “Though we have some defense against the beasts.” That collected her attention fully, and she drew to a sudden halt, whirling to face him. 

“How? What would we need?”

“Men, masters of woodworking. Steel. Blacksmiths to bend and shape the metal. Before long I shall put the plans into your hands so that you might see for yourself.”

She nodded again, almost smiling. “And you have prepared for your travel? You ride to White Harbor and take ship for Dragonstone?”

“Yes, my lady. Lord Manderly has a cutter that will make excellent time.”

“Good. The people of the North are depending on you to keep them safe.” She turned the subject as they come across a group of the Wintertown urchins being kitted with spear and bow. It was not an idea completely lacking merit, and the bastard had cleverly kept the cost out of his own books, and spread it instead among those houses that had done so well under Roose. Most highborns chose to leave their clerking to their Maesters, who themselves were pulled every which way, like a skein over a drum. Every one of them always too busy to pay attention if books went missing for a few hours here or there. Not so the bastard. 

Winterfell’s coffers rattled with the dregs of what was left after the brief tenure of the Boltons. But he was filling them. Sales of fur, ironwood, anything that might be sold, was. He was less of a fool than expected. Less volatile, too. And the counter-offer of the Dreadfort by the lady of the Dreadfort herself, was done well.Unfortunately. 

Royce came to Sansa’s other side, one finger flung out pointing at the children struggling with the bow and arrow. Petyr looked upon them too. The time drew near when he would leave, and there had been no suitable candidate yet. None who could be bought to the degree he needed. The bastard kept the castle too busy to notice any need for coin. And with Ramsay’s brief reign over the area, most of the girls had gone too. He pursed his lips, letting the conversation beside him flow by without his guidance. 

He’d done well in the brief time he’d had Sansa under him. She’d had the benefit of his dearest Cat, of course, so there hadn’t been too much that was practical that he could teach her. But for the game itself. Now that she had cleared Ramsay from her board, she’d grown a brittle sort of confidence. Hardly more than a thin coat of paint over the bruising he knew remained. The question was whether he ought to foster it or crush it. 

Cersei would make stronger overtures soon, and Varys and Tyrion too, now that they had a Targaryen in their pocket. And the lords of the north needed little but a whisper to begin their grumbling about her marriage to Tyrion Lannister. To help her might rebuild her dependence on him even as it broke the bond with the bastard and grew her own illusion of power. 

Like a stone thrown into a pool, he heard the murmuring voices first, then the press of bodies bowing and shifting apart. Jon Snow strode through them, looking particularly unlike his father this morning. He was a Stark, true enough, in the shape of his face and eyes, but there was something curious about him. Whatever Southron whore had birthed him left her mark. Half of his appeal, as was Sansa’s, was his beauty.

Approaching their gathering, Jon gave nods to the lords, and reached a possessive hand to Sansa’s arm.She seemed to notice it little, coming docilely to his side, without even a question. 

“My lords, you must forgive me. I would speak with my sister.” Around them, the others murmured their agreement and moved off. Himself, he waited a moment, until Sansa looked away from her bastard brother. There was more work to do, clearly, before he left. The seed had not quite taken root. He smiled, feeling sour, at them both.

“I had a suggestion to make, that I had not yet put to you Lady Sansa. But with the king here, the time is ripe,” Petyr began, noting the utter blankness of Jon Snow’s face. He was infuriatingly difficult to read. 

“Before I ride, I would give a feast for the lords of the North. They will need something to cheer them before the hard work of preparation begins in earnest.”

“There is no gold for a feast,” Jon replied, curt, his voice, at least, a perfect echo of his father.

“You have no gold, Your Grace, but I have much to spare.”

“Then save your gold for your dealings with the Targaryen girl. They say she is rich beyond imagining. I imagine you shall need it all.”

“Bring my own gold to the table in a deal meant to benefit all the North. Your Grace, this is... this is quite unusual. Unless you are proposing to seize the Dreadfort for yourself and add to your holdings.”

Sansa interrupted them, Petyr spied her hand grasping a fistful of her brother’s cloak, “I am sure my brother did not mean to suggest that you use your own gold to buy the dragonglass. Your holdings are your own Lord Baelish. My king is in a hurry to speak with me and surely that has left his tongue unguarded. If you will find me later, we can speak further about this feast.”

Petyr bowed, and watched them turn about and leave for the godswood. It was not an entirely dissatisfying sally. He wound his cloak around him, and made his own way back to his rooms. With a detour to the kitchens along the way. There might be some candidates there, and if there weren’t, then one would need to be made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be able to update next Friday, so here's the chapter a week early. Comments and (kind) concrit are always welcome. Thanks!!


	5. Prescribed Burn

An intriguing sort of introduction. Horn Hill was of her own domain, far distant from the North and the Wall. Yet, she remembered something to do with this Samwell. If he was the one she remembered, he had given up his claim and gone to take the black. The new heir had been as thick-headed as any man could want, though charmingly innocent. 

Rolling the letter into the pouch at her wrist, she considered it as she listened to Tyrion Lannister’s simpleminded plan. He was as tiresome as she remembered, more so even. All the heady pleasures of power and a pretty woman wrapped around his finger had given him all of the self-satisfied vigor she sometimes missed in Mace. _There_ was a fool. Though he at least could be brought to heel. This one was too enamored of his own voice to take heed of his betters. 

The girl who called herself queen was a strange nervous creature, like most young women were with no proper guidance from their elders. Half bullheaded confidence, half fearful cringing, and always looking for a man to lead the charge. That was easily fixed, and so she did, easily ignoring the twinge that followed. Westeros would burn. What did that matter? The rose was gone, burnt to ash and all that had survived were its thorns. Nothing need grow in its place. 

She rose, the chair and her joints creaking in time, and looked down on the child. Even if Baelish did come, the charmer, he would be consumed by the blaze as much as everyone else. 

* * *

“My lady, thank you for allowing me to speak with you.” Varys perched upon the chair at her side. He offered no courtesies, as he had done in Kings Landing. The Spider had taken on a new face, now that he was sworn to the dragon banner.

Olenna would have laughed at it, once. “I couldn’t think of a reason to say no. So here you are. What do you want to say?”

He gazed at her for a moment, then, his eyes dropped to her hands crossed in her lap. “The Master of Whisperers hears interesting tales from all sorts of places. There is one about two boys who became sworn brothers. One rode away to become a King. The other sailed off to become a Maester of the Citadel. Separated by distance, but one in purpose.”

Olenna rolled her eyes. “If you’ve read my letter, you can say so. I expected no less.”

“Of course,” he returned. “But I must ask, why did you keep it to yourself?”

“I might ask you the same, Ser Spider.” Olenna pulled the letter free, unrolled it across her lap.

“The queen needs little in the way of distractions,” he replied.

“Oh come, you must do better than that. I may be an old woman, but I have not lost my wits.” She leaned forward toward him, waiting. 

“No, my lady, you are ever in full possession of your faculties,” he hesitated, then went on, “I know little of the Tarly’s, and still less of this Jon Snow. I know the Citadel has heard this Samwell’s tales of creatures coming from beyond the Wall. I heard them myself, while King Robert was still on his throne, from a man of the Watch sent by Lord Commander Mormont.”

“And now you hear them again you believe them?” Olenna scoffed. “You disappoint me. Whatever these men are up to, it has little to do with grumpkins and ice spiders from beyond the Wall, and everything to do with establishing this Jon Snow’s place on the board. He wants attention, as all men do.”

Varys, usually taciturn, frowned at her. “If Lord Tyrion is to be believed, Jon Snow is much like his father. Not given to games or untruths.”

“Tyrion Lannister is a fool. He hardly knows what he himself is like, how can he know the measure of others?” Olenna leaned back in her chair. The amusement of talking with Varys had palled. His conversation reminded her of the pleasure there’d been once in playing. “Leave me, Lord Varys. Old women like myself must have their rest.” She turned her head against the back of the chair, eyes falling upon the expanse of the sea beyond her window. 

He shifted to his feet. “I would like to reply, my lady. Might I?”

She turned to look up at him. “Why would you want to respond?”

“It is important to the queen’s campaign to know all the players well. This Jon Snow holds the largest kingdom. Through his sister, he is kin to the Riverlands and the Vale. He has one of your own of the Reach loyal to him. What if Samwell Tarly sways others? Maesters are well-trusted by the lords they serve, after all.”

He extended a hand and slowly Olenna passed the letter to him. She did not care if he had it. The quicker it was off her hands, the better she could pay more heed to seeing Cersei Lannister’s head roll from her body. 

Varys bowed, tucking away the parchment. “Thank you. May the gods be with you on your travels home, my lady.”

“There are no gods my lord.” She lumbered upright on her chair, aware that her face was drawn into a ghastly rictus of a smile, but the hurt had taken hold of her again, and if she did not unspool it somewhere she would fling herself from the window and make an end of her life. And that would not do.

“No gods, no mercy, and no justice. Not for you and your severed cock,” at his sharp look, she nodded at him, “Oh yes. The man you had shipped to you from the East, we knew all about him. How long did you play with him Varys? How long did you make him wait?” Varys whipped his hands, and the letter, out of sight rather than reply. It was reply enough. She went on, the words building like a pot at the boil, in her chest.

“Not for this poor, deluded girl you think will set things aright in this sundered kingdom. Not for my Margaery, oh no, nor my Loras. No gods came to save them from that savage woman and her rampant stupidity. They say beauty hides many a sin, and they are right Varys. They are right. You thought you were immune, eunuch that you are,” she barked a laugh in his face. “But you have brought a mad, fire-breathing _dog_ to these shores in your interminable search for the perfect ruler. And I have aided you in your quest, for if there is no mercy and no justice, by all the gods I will have my revenge.” 

She shook in her chair, the voile at her throat rising in time with her breathing, and she pressed a hand to her chest. 

“I may have been wrong,” Varys said after a long moment. His face, usually frozen in whatever mask he ordered it to be, had broken into a mess of shapes. A corkscrew of a mouth, spiraling downward, a set of shaded triangles for eyes, strange lined circles for cheeks. Olenna dragged her hand across her eyes, suddenly limp with exhaustion.

“But if I was, I must fix it,” he went on. “I cannot do it alone.”

“You’ll not fix it with me,” Olenna replied, muffled from behind her fingers. She would not help. She could not do it, not for all the gold in the world. Not even if her children were returned to her. 

“If you will not help, then simply do this. Write to your family at the Citadel. I want this Samwell Tarly. I may need him, and his Black Brother, this King in the North,” Varys edged close and then settled to one knee before her. “The Rose is gone, but the garden remains. There are others of your family yet, my lady. They deserve better than Cersei, better perhaps than Daenerys, though she may yet prove herself worthy.”

“Who are you to judge Ser Spider?” Olenna asked, but the kettle had gone off the boil, and she had cloaked her anger once more. 

“One day the people will choose. Until then, I will do my best for them.”

Olenna sighed and waved him away. He rose and bowed to her before leaving. In his wake, her handmaiden, a twig of a girl with entered and curtsied. “Will you rest my lady? Or may I begin to stow your things?”

“You can start. Go about your business,” Olenna gestured at her, knowing she sounded like a fretful old woman, but she was and it wouldn’t do to change her habit now. The children, she watched the girl pull out her trunks, would worry if she changed suddenly. 

“What was your name again my dear?”

“Myrrella, my lady,” the girl whirled to face her, cheeks already gone red, likely in expectation of a scolding. 

“Yes, yes. Sit there,” Olenna pointed, “and tell me about your people. Which dreadful niece sent you to spy on me?” The girl stuttered and then began to speak, and Olenna listened, half her mind composing the letter she would write to her cousins. 

* * *

Her servants, silly children that they were, whispered behind her as they walked toward the strand. The Red Woman they called her, a ridiculous name. She was red-haired like the Tully’s usually were. And a woman, true enough. Olenna ambled toward her, hands twitching her skirts above her ankles. The sand sucked at her heels as she went, each step closer to the water, toward the red woman more difficult than the last. 

She came abreast and stopped, staring out at the sea, much as the woman was. “You wished to speak to me I presume. Otherwise, why would you be here and not taking ship back to wherever red women come from.”

The woman did not reply to her words directly. “Your loss is a great one, my lady. The sons and daughters of your house have gone, without even leaving their bones behind. The pain of this, I know it well. As so many do.”

“You wish to counsel me in my grief. I will not thank you for it. If you have anything more to say, say it to that girl there,” Olenna nodded her head toward the castle looming behind them. “She needs the guidance of older women.”

“She does.” 

To leave Dragonstone and return to Highgarden was no great pleasure. Yet there was also no great pleasure in staying. The Rock was to be besieged, Kings Landing was to be sacked. With those two victories, with all of Cersei’s joy turned to ash, she knew she could rest.

“Not from me,” Olenna replied after a long quiet moment. “What is your name my dear? I refuse to continue calling you the Red Woman.”

With an abrupt turn and deep bow, the woman responded, “You might call me Melisandre.”

“Melisandre,” Olenna repeated, “since you’re giving counsel, you ought to tell the Targaryen girl that she might leave this Jon Snow be. Northerners do not play well in the South. They take their oaths too seriously. Hold their grudges and their vengeance too close to their hearts. Makes them utterly untrustworthy.”

“And you, my lady? Are you trustworthy? The Spider,” the woman’s voice dipped threateningly, “weaves his webs around you all so deftly, it is no wonder that you hardly notice him.”

Olenna glanced at her, then back out to sea. Her ship was coming near and from behind her, the servants began to bustle forward with her trunks. “I do hope your red god keeps you safe on your travels home my dear. I shall pray to the Seven for you. For us all, really. Old women, dragons, bastards, witches—it is a most desperate time we find ourselves in. And all of us make strange bedfellows.”

She strode away, as though she could not feel the Red Woman’s eyes following her. Varys was not nearly as subtle as that devious bastard Baelish, but she had thought him discreet when he had pressed the letter into her hand. Even more reason for her to be away, deliver this letter, and return home.


	6. the nature of the sun is to...

“A letter from a westerman to a Sand Snake of Dorne,” Ellaria murmured, raising the cup to her lips. The broken boy, Greyjoy’s young brother stared at her for a moment before his eyes darted down to the floor. She drained it and shook the chalice at him. He inched forward, steadily grasping her cup, fingers shying from hers. He poured more of the dry red, which was all the Greyjoys could seem to provide. 

“You can read, I presume, boy?” she asked him, as he placed the cup back into her hand. She watched his face, waiting to see if it would move. It didn’t, and Ellaria rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to bite you child. We are allies, are we not? You are Theon Greyjoy, you were hostage with the Starks, everyone knows this. And I have a letter about these wolves that I do not understand.” She waited, eyes on his face. His lashes flickered and then his eyes, great haunted looking things, met hers. She smiled into his face, pleased that the boy had a little backbone at least.

“I can read, my lady,” he said to her finally. 

“Good. Then take this, read it, and explain to me why a man of the Reach dares write to Dorne,” she slammed her mug down and dips into the pouch at her waist. She flung the letter at him, and he caught it, fumbling. It was not overlong, but she saw him stumble over the words as much as she did. He swallowed and shook himself upright, clearing his throat. 

“It is signed, Samwell Tarly, Maester to the Nights Watch,” the boy ran a finger over the seal, frowning. 

“What is this letter?” Ellaria asked. She would have liked to ask him more, but even in the brief time she has observed him she had seen that he was little but a mouse. 

He gazed at it for a moment more. “It is not from Jon. Nor even from Castle Black. But, Jon is King in the North and he was named Lord Commander. He could have ordered this sent.”

“Why to me?”

“How am I to know?” the boy fired back, and then the fire within him died. He froze, shoulders curling high toward his ears. 

Ellaria sipped at the cup for a moment and then extended a hand. When he didn’t move, she waggled her fingers until the letter dropped into her palm. “Then I suppose I shall ask your sister.”

He nodded, a swift jerking movement, and whirled to face the door when it crashed open. Yara ducked through it, grinning. She took in the room, pausing for a breath as she surveyed her brother, but crossed the room and dropped onto the settle beside her. They leaned toward one another, smiling, a circular dance they’d been lazily going through the motions of. 

Tonight, finally away from Dragonstone and aboard ship, it had the spice of something more intent. Ellaria watched Yara glance across at her brother and nearly missed her hand coming close to nip the wine cup away and swig the rest of it down. Ellaria rolled her eyes, though she could not help a small smile when Yara pressed close to reach across her and place the cup on the table. 

She barely leaned away before she asked a question. “What deep secrets are you exchanging?”

Ellaria crooked an eyebrow at that, almost tempted to laugh. Her resolved died when the boy, clearly aghast, tried to stutter out an answer. He managed to eke out that there was a letter, before Yara stopped him and waved him away. He bowed, red creeping into his cheeks, and moved for the door. When the hide flap had ceased swinging and the door was firmly shut, then Yara turned back to her. 

“You asked my brother to help you decipher a letter?” she reached a finger upward and traced the shell of her ear. Greyjoy removed one earring and set it aside. Ellaria let her, choosing her words carefully.

“Where the sister fails, I must resort to the brother,” Ellaria paused, a little enflamed despite herself. Greyjoy nibbled on the one ear naked of its rings while her fingers slipped the others free. Ellaria tipped her head to one side, grinned as Yara trailed kisses down her neck.

Against her skin, Yara murmured, “I’m not entirely sure that little Theon should be relied on as a source of information. He is still suffering from his captivity. Don’t tease him too strongly.” 

Ellaria didn’t bother to answer, wrapped her arms around Yara’s waist and tugged her into hovering over her lap. Their eyes met, and Ellaria nodded once. She smiled again and pulled Yara down until she could kiss her. The girl is skilled, and the kiss in itself is enough to have her groan in frustration when a knock sounds on the door. 

“What?” They grumbled the question at the same moment.

“Yara, the master wants you on deck. The wind is up.” It her brother who called through the door.

Yara smiled at her, a tense little thing, with none of her usual bravado. “My apologies. Make yourself secure.”

Ellaria nodded, mildly, and watched her leave. There was more of a problem than just the wind, even if the brother did not wish to reveal what it was, precisely. She stood, gathering up her earrings and left the cabin to find the girls. 

She slid into the cabin they’d chosen for themselves, hand raised for quiet. They settled their horseplay under her eye, her own pretty Tyene onto the table, Nymeria and Obara along the bench. 

“Plans rarely go as intended, especially loud ones such as this. You each are always prepared, I know, for battle. Soon, you will have your fill, I think. Before then, one of you must volunteer to go home to Sunspear and speak with your cousin Arianne. Make her ready to go on her travels.”

The eldest, Obara, scoffed. “If you think Arianne is ready to go, you’ve lost your head as much as my father did.”

Ellaria ground down on her first reply, and stalked her way to the eldest girl’s side. She looked down upon her, waiting until Obara dropped her eyes to the decking. “That is uncouth. Your father raised you wild, true, but not rude. We are family.”

“Cousin Arianne will think we mean to kill her. Like we did our father’s brother,” Tyene offered, and Ellaria reached out a hand and flicked her daughter, hard, on the forehead. Tyene clapped her hands over the mark, cursing. 

“We have no intention to kill her, as should be obvious even to her,” Ellaria pulled the letter from the pouch she’d stuffed it in and dropped it into Obara’s lap. Obara glanced at her, fingers prying the scroll open. She read it swiftly, eyebrows furrowing, as Ellaria spoke,” We need her to go North and meet Jon Snow.”

“A Northerner? Why? The Lannisters are here,” Nym sat up, flinging a hand toward the porthole, “and we came to seek vengeance on them, not to go on a pleasure cruise to see the frozen arsehole of the world.”

“Do you really think we are here solely for the Lannisters?” Ellaria asked. Obara raised her head again, eyes fiercely focused, and shook it once. 

Ellaria brushed a hand over her cheek and smiled. “No. Rhaegar Targaryen and his wandering cock destroyed my love’s sister and her children. And another girl, too,” she surveyed them all, one by one.Each of them had their faults and together they were a menace.One would be enough to control Arianne, docile little fool that she was.For all of Doran’s genius, he had been shit at raising children smart enough to follow him.

The ship rocked beneath them, hard enough that Ellaria stumbled and threw a hand out to catch herself.She looked to Nym and Obara and saw that they had come to the same thought that she had.The two of them stood and began strapping on their weapons. 

Tyene caught their motion a moment later, and rose to do the same.Ellaria pressed a hand into her shoulder and forced her to sit.“Mother what—?”

“Be still and say farewell to your sisters,” Ellaria replied. 

“Poor baby.Mother won’t let you go and fight.We’ll try to save a piece of Cersei for you,” Nymeria crowed, one hand coiling her whip and threading it to her belt.Her hands moved deftly through the motions and then she darted a hand out to knock Tyene between the eyes as well.“See you in Kings Landing.”She walked away, the door sliding quietly shut behind her.

“‘Bara, you’re going to go home aren’t you?” Tyene asked, querulous. 

“Dull and slow, it’s no wonder your mother won’t let you stay and fight.The Mountain would crush you soon as look at you.When I see you next, try to be a little faster, if you can,” Obara replied.Spear in hand, she walked away too, slamming the door. 

Tyene turned to her, mouth open to complain, and Ellaria wasted no time.She slapped the girl across the face.It stung all along her palm, but she ignored it and wrapped the same hand around her daughter’s elbow and shook her.“You must do your part, child.You remember, don’t you?Home to Arianne, we take her to seduce this King in the North.Things simply are coming along faster than intended.”

“I want to stay with you,” was the sullen reply.Ellaria pulled her to stand and laid a hand on either cheek. 

“We do not often receive what is our dearest wish.Unless we work for it.Unless we earn it.And even then, the gods are not kind, they are not gentle.They give us justice on the point of a knife and mercy not at all.”Two fat tears slid from the child’s eyes, her father’s eyes, and Ellaria steeled herself against them.“Do as you are told, child.If Yara Greyjoy is half the captain she says she is, you will see us again.”She waited until Tyene nodded, then pressed a kiss on the red mark between her brows. 

“Now come.We must get you away before what I think is happening, does.”

* * *

“What are you doing?” The voice rang out stridently, and Ellaria whirled, dropping her hand to her blade. Behind her, Tyene had frozen with one knee lifted to begin the climb down to the boat below. 

Ellaria cast a brittle smile on the boy. He was a man, but a stringy one, and more broken than his sister wished to admit. “Your treacherous winds have made my daughter ill. She is returning to land,” she called over to him, and slid forward a step. 

Theon appeared to take that in stride, nodding, an uncurious look obvious even in the gloomy dusk. “And you, my lady? Are you taken with the seasickness too?” He glanced over his shoulder, a minute movement, but in the second in took for him to check behind him, he was transformed. The face he turned upon her next was cold and set. “It is a sort of treachery isn’t it,” he went on, voice slipping into chilly sort of courtesy. “Comes when you least expect it, and at the worst time.”

Smiling, she could not help but admire him. Perhaps the weakness had been an illusion. Yet it mattered little. Whether he would allow it or no, Tyene would be away from this ship, and back in Sunspear, before Winter was full on them. 

“Nothing to say, my lady?” The boy questioned her, voice still easy. 

“Nothing of importance to you,” she replied, and gestured for Tyene to climb over. As the girl did not move, Ellaria jerked and half-turned, a snarl growing in her chest. 

“At a guess, since the other girls are here, aboard ship, I take it you’re making a bet.” Greyjoy moved, an idle motion, or it would have been were it not for the hand he’d settled on the short blade at his waist. He had not many fingers, but there still might be enough to grasp a knife. “I don’t blame you. Jon was my brother once, or something like it. “

“And so you’re here to reminiscence, like an old man?” Ellaria threw the question at him and moved until Tyene was fully behind her. She backed, and Tyene made a little grunt of frustration as she was forced to the edge. “To tell me of the great love you and Jon Snow shared once?”

He chuckled, a crisp and chill sound. “I have no doubt that Jon would kill me soon as see me. But I did him a favor, of sorts. Maybe your daughter can be the second. But be quick about it.” He strode past her then and despite herself, Ellaria felt her heart jump. Yet all he did was peer over the side, where the boat crested another wave. “She’ll need to be off before we come about.”

“Come about?” Ellaria asked.

He looked at her, hands reaching for the belaying rope and tightening it. “My uncle's Iron Fleet, my lady.”

She digested it for only a moment. Then she rounded on Tyene and gave her a rough kiss, and all but tossed her over the side. A faint, indignant _Mother!_ reached her ear, and the dark tousled head glared up for a stretch before she settled to the work of descending to the boat. 

When Tyene was aboard, she and the Greyjoy boy cut the ropes together, and watched the little boat on its way until it was a speck in the distance. 

“What was the favor Theon Greyjoy?” Ellaria asked, eyes straining to see through the dusk.

“I gave him his sister back.”


	7. The Heart and Stomach of a King

“Do you remember our first meeting? All those years ago. How sweet you were.”

He smiled, slinking around the unlit hearth where Jon would usually build the fire, then stand and pace, thinking she could not see how impatiently he waited for her words. She delighted, sometimes, in speaking slower, just to see his reaction. It was safe, teasing him, denying him, riling him. When he grew cross, a sharp furrow creased between his brow, and his eyes glimmered at her. At those moments, at her look, he would calm himself. For her, he would gentle himself. It was a curious sort of pleasure.

One she sometimes felt she in no way deserved. She was frozen, her heart too like stone to even shed tears properly for her baby brother, to be able to do anything more than give Ramsay to his dogs. That must be why Littlefinger remained— to torment her. To remind her of all the ways she erred. All the ways she failed to take heed of what was precious just in front of her face.

She remembered the day they first met. The tourney, with Father solidly on one side and Arya tucked in close beside her as she would never be again. The ghastly hammering of the Hound and Mountain. All of it was worn through with revisiting. The Hound, even, was more stark in her memory than her own father’s face. 

The pain of not being able to remember roughens her voice as she answers, “I do. The tourney. What of it?”

He hummed under his breath for a moment, the song hazily familiar. “Yes the tourney, my dear. That was a day, wasn’t it. All those lords and ladies in their finery. You were radiant, even so young as you were,” he leans over the table, not close enough to touch her, though she could feel the warmth of him. 

“What a pity it was that I had to play the villain so soon afterward.”

Sansa responded before thinking the words through, “Play the villain?”

“Oh yes. You remember, don’t you? The letter you wrote to your brother. The trueborn, Robb. The other King in the North.”

For a moment her vision was a swirling black void. Then she drew in a breath, the chill of it burning a path down her throat and into her lungs. “What reminds you of that letter Lord Baelish?” For, of course, it was Littlefinger she spoke to. As much as it was Petyr who sought her hand and her heart and her body. She was a fool to forget that and speak to him with anything other than the utmost care. 

“I spoke with your King in the North today. He _is_ yours, isn’t he,” he asked it eagerly, dark eyes catching on hers and holding them. He came around the table to sit near her, one hand taking hers and laying it open. With his other hand, he thrust a scroll into her palm and curled each of her fingers around it. Sansa held still, wary of the way he had not answered her question. 

“He is my brother, of course,” Sansa gentled her voice, “but what reminds you of this letter?” She stilled her hand under his with an effort that made her head pound. He squeezed her hand in his grasp, then relaxed his hold. 

“Of course,” he nodded. “He must have watched you learn to walk, to speak, to dance. How he must have cherished you sweetling. Now that you are together again, he must ache at what you have suffered. The way any brother would. How I did, when I… heard about your mother.” He stared at her, eyes fixed and unblinking. When he finally freed her, Sansa felt her heart thundering in her chest. She’d barely been breathing, frozen under his eyes. 

He removed his hand then, the letter still caught in her fingertips. “The struggles you have had with bringing these lords to heel will only worsen, Sansa. You must leave nothing to chance in these times. Since you did not think of this measure, I made sure of it on your behalf.” 

Sansa forced herself to smile at him, trying to bring some true cheer to her eyes, but from the way he made no attempt to return the smile, it must have failed. “Thank you Lord Baelish. I shall take greater care in future,” she stood, laced her hands together around the scroll. 

He rose in turn, waving a hand as though to brush away her words. “Think nothing of it. I have told you that I will make amends. You shall see how well I can keep my word, my lady.” Littlefinger tilted his head at her, and left, the door swinging shut behind him. 

She crushed the scroll between her fingers when he was full gone.

* * *

“Sansa?” Jon’s voice reached her from the depths of his chamber, bewildered. She swung the door shut and barred it, only to linger just in front of it. She’d come all this way, and not planned what to say. The path from the solar they shared to Jon’s bedchamber was not so long, but the path she’d taken, she could not begin to recall. A shiver trembled through her and in its wake, Sansa squeezed her hands tight over her middle. 

Without her marking him, Jon was close. Suddenly it was all she could do not to launch herself at him, and she dragged in a breath and held it, hoping that if she could just have a moment, she would be able to control herself. But Jon was there, searching her face for barely a moment, then stepping closer and winding his arms about her. He tugged her in, grip almost bruising, and Sansa flung her arms around his neck. 

She could speak again after a long moment, but she only loosened her hold and lingered within the circle of his arm, misliking the idea of being far from him. Even as far as an arms length away. He murmured into her hair, “Will you tell me what it is?”

What was she to say? That she’d not wanted to remember what Littlefinger wanted and what he was willing to do to get it. That the reward of the Dreadfort, of high position in the North, was not enough to satisfy him, and they had been fools to think they could order Littlefinger anywhere he did not intend to go. 

“We must trust each other now, d’you remember me saying that to you?”

“How could I forget?” Sansa whispered in reply, hating how choked and weak her voice emerged.

“It is still true.” 

“I know that,” she huffed and tugged herself away from him, frustration and fear tussling like living things in her belly. He looked at her, arms fallen to his sides like a mummer’s doll with its strings cut. 

“Then?”

“You must go,” she cringed as she said the words, already wishing that she could snatch them back and tuck them away, unheard. 

Jon did not pretend to misunderstand her, and the line that she loves to tease into being appears between his brows. “And leave you here, with them? With _him_? Sansa, are you mad? I swore—.”

“What you swore doesn’t matter,” Sansa spoke over him, hardening her voice. “Your oaths will not protect me! Not from him. I’ve told you before, but you will not listen. No one can protect me, not you, nor Brienne, nor Podrick, no one.

“So you wish me to leave you vulnerable without any family about you, why?” His voice was nearly a shout at the last. 

“He will turn them against us, if you don’t. Can’t you see that? There are no easy choices here. At least if you go, he will not act against me. If you go, you’ll be safe.”

“I thought Tyrion’s invitation was a trap,” Jon drawled. Sansa scowled at him. He sighed, relenting, and approached her again. “If I go, I leave you behind. If I stay, at least we are together.” 

“No,” Sansa contradicted him, already knowing how that story will end. “If you stay and Petyr turns our lords against us, he will kill you, and I will be a prisoner in my own home. He will find a way, Jon. This is what he does. I know him.” She could not bring herself to say that he had already found a way to destroy her. If she did, she would never be able to reconcile Jon to leaving. “Go to the dragon queen, find a way to gather all her dragonglass, and come home to defeat the Night King. And leave Littlefinger to me.” 

When Jon did not respond but for his hands tightening at his sides, she reached for and captured his hands in her own. “I cannot do this without you,” she said to him, swallowing against the tightness in her throat. Winterfell was hers and Jon’s. They had taken it together and now because of her folly, she must force him away. Staying within these walls, without him, even with friends at hand, was punishment beyond what she thought she could bear. But if it meant a chance at keeping Jon alive, she would suffer it gladly.

“I won’t leave you with him,” Jon pulled away from her, stubborn, and paced toward the fire. His hair, half undone, curled wildly around his face and shone in the flames. “To leave you alone is as good abandoning you. I won’t do it.”

Sansa watched him for a moment, then spoke as clearly as she could. “You are busy facing every way but Littlefinger’s. You cannot see him, except that you know want to crush him. But you don’t know him like I do, and he is an enemy that you don’t know how best to fight. He looks at you and sees a boy wearing his father’s cloak, he looks at me and sees a girl he wants to bed. He would do anything to make me come to it willingly.”

He flinched and Sansa shut her mouth before an apology could fight its way free. After she settled herself, she spoke once more. “Listen to me, please. There is no other choice but this. If you will give it to me, I will hold the North for you. I will make them ready to fight the Night King. I will be here, alive, when you return. I promise.”

“I can’t give what isn’t mine,” he replied, looking at her strangely. 

Despite herself, she turned her eyes from him, stung to silence. He was right. The lords had elected him, not that she hadn’t hoped they would. 

“Come here,” he said after a moment, one hand held out toward her. She came, slowly, and took his hand, one thumb swiping over its scars. 

“The North is yours, Sansa. It’s always been yours. I may be king now, but we both know it is you who deserved it. But I will use that crown,” his hand shook hers until she looked into his face, “to protect you until my last day. I swore it in the godswood that night, and I have sworn it every night since.”

There was a strange little part of her that remembered the songs and tales of gallant knights with their ladies fair. It was, truth be told, a part that she tried to ignore, to bury, lest it awaken hope. So instead of bending a kiss on Jon’s cheek in answer to the sweetness of his look, as the girl in her heart wished to do, she spoke gently. “You cannot protect me.”

He smiled, even as all the warmth of his eyes faded to cold sharpness. 

“I will, now and always.”

She could hardly breathe in the silence that fell between them. Sometimes in the cold darkness before the dawn, she’d let herself dream, the silly dreams of her girlhood. There had been no song that she had not known how to play on her harp to, no poem she could not recite, no story she had not known the words for as if they were graven on the back of her hand. And every one of them a tale of surpassing love. She buried them as the sun rose. But it was hard, each day more than the last, to hide the shiver of pleasure when Jon spoke thus. 

But if it was hard not to believe him, it was worse still to consider that if she let him continue saying such things, it would not be daggers that killed him. A headsman’s axe awaited him, if he tried to follow in Father’s footsteps. Or the rope. 

She forced her eyes away, and stepped back from him. “Protecting Winterfell, is what you must do. Protecting the North. And our people. So that no Southron can take it from us again.”

Jon followed her— she could feel him, even though she had cast her eyes toward the fire. “You are my lady,” he spoke so quietly she thought she had imagined it and she whirled to face him. 

He went on, the stubborn crease between his eyes furrowed deep. “My lady of Winterfell, and if I am charged with protecting the North, I think you must acknowledge that includes you.”

She parted her lips to speak, though she hardly knew what to say, and did not know how to account for the unsteadiness of her heart. 

“I trust you,” he went on, earnest. “And if you want me to go, if you say this is the way, then I shall do it.”

Sansa brought herself to nod, and ignored the traitorous twist in her belly as she did. 

* * *

“My lady.” The words susurrated around the room, and though she hated them, she blanketed the first, flaming impulse carefully. Only when it was cold and still, did she reply to them all with the cool nod she’d spied her lady mother give half a hundred times without noticing. She was Lady of Winterfell, like her lady mother before her, and there was little and less than little to fear even from this group of men. They sat when she did, barely rustling as she guided them from one point to the next. Of gazes looking round for Jon or Maester Wolkan there were none, and if a glance flickered aside to Brienne decamped at a window, Sansa ignored it. Petyr had called her impressive, his voice full of admiration. But that had been a lie. 

He looked at her now, the tilt of his smile telling of his admiration, and Sansa graced him with a smile. He matched it, eyes shining brightly. Sansa kept his gaze for a moment more, then dropped her lashes over her eyes and spoke from underneath them. “There is a matter of importance to put before you.”

Lord Manderly, mouth open to put forth another point about the state of the road from White Harbor, shut his teeth with a click. Sansa rose and turned around the room, until she could feel the tension thick around her. She came back to the table and pulled free the letter Tyrion Lannister had written, and Samwell Tarly at the Citadel. They fluttered to the polished oaken table and bounced once before falling still. “Our king means to do us a service, my lords,” Sansa planted her palms on the table. “He means to travel South, declare our neutrality in this war between Lannister and Targaryen, obtain us the dragon glass we require, and return with gold and men and the weapons we need to win this war.” She swept them fiercely with her gaze and pinned each one with a stare as their mouths fell open. 

“And in his absence, he has named me the Stark in Winterfell, and charged me to rule in his name and my brother Robb’s and my father’s.” 

Behind their eyes, she could see their misgivings, their suspicions about her fitness after Ramsay. She could see that they looked to Petyr, opposite her now, thanks to her pacing. “If you wish to speak,” Sansa said into the quiet, “do not fear that I am too feeble to hear it.”

Lord Glover shifted in his chair, but beside him, Royce sat forward and spoke first. “My lady, I think I speak for many of us. You are your father’s daughter, a true heir of Eddard Stark. You have given the Vale the chance for honor. We will not fail you,” he paused for a moment, the look on his face congealing. “I am sure my lord’s stepfather agrees.”

Petyr’s smile, gleeful, anticipatory melted away. “I do. Lady Sansa is well-suited for her role.” He spoke, all seriousness, earnest and true. 

“There has never been a woman to rule the North,” Lord Glover declared, but it was not anger that freed his tongue. “Tisn’t right that the king should name his sister over any one of us here who’s held the North for the Starks.” He surveyed her curiously. 

“I am not a queen,” Sansa replied and felt a terrible shiver tremble along the knobs of her spine. “But you are my lords, and with or without your permission, I shall care for you as if you were mine own blood. Do you doubt it?” She faced him squarely and did not smile nor lose his gaze until she could see that he remembered how he had spoken to her when she and Jon had gone to beg for his support.

Glover did not cow so easily, looking like nothing so much as a bulldog with his long mouth set behind its drooping mustaches. “And the king leaves his own blood so easily? When not long ago, he spoke of Baelish going South? What are we to make of this? He leaves the Nights Watch, and he leaves the North. One could be forgiven for saying that Jon Snow is not so much like his father after all.”

She had expected it, and the blow had fallen more lightly than she could have ever prayed for. “Our king takes his oaths seriously. Jon left the Wall, not for any great love of me, I promise you, but because he is Ned Stark’s son. And Winter is upon us. If the North is not made ready for the Night King and his army, the North will fall. And this time, it shall be for all time. There is a reason the Wildlings follow him, why the Nights Watch elected him, why he is the king you chose.” Carefully, Sansa pressed herself upward from the table, her fingers and wrists tight and aching from the strain.

“He will speak for the North and our people better than Lord Baelish could,” Sansa went on, “although I know my lord will still accompany Jon and lend him his skill.”

Royce glanced at her, with a small smile of his own, and even Glover’s face relaxed. The rest, satisfied that the two loudest voices had been appeased, were satisfied too and each began to nod comfortably to his neighbor. Petyr inclined his head, once; and his eyes, which could pierce terribly did not rise to meet hers. She circled the width of the table, catching Brienne’s approving smile as she went, and settled into her chair.


	8. Fortune Sometimes Doth Conquer Kings

“So now it’s you and me and _him_ goin’? Well the wife might let me back in the door and she might not.” Davos rubbed a hand over his beard. When he’d told the boy that fire kills wights, and he and his sister had made the connection, he thought that’d been the end of his contribution to that particular problem of diplomacy. Especially since the lad had seen sense and decided to rid himself of Baelish.

Littlefinger was a terrible old snake, and every man he spoke to knew it. Some of the more embarrassed lot that hasn’t joined the battle for Winterfell liked to whisper how in the Ned’s day, a charmer such as Baelish would’ve been sent off straightaway. They usually worked themselves around to blaming Jon’s bastard blood. If they were feeling particular, and had a wee bit much of the ale at table, they blamed Ramsay’s rough treatment of the girl for muddling her wits and forgetting her training. 

Of the few times he’d brought this to the lad, all that he’d gotten for his troubles was a muttered excuse of _Sansa says we need him._

Now all the promise there’d been in contemplating a castle without Baelish was gone. 

“Just send me,” Davos watched the lad’s face. He was taciturn as Stannis on a good day, by nature. Assassination had made him even more icy and twice as hard to read. “I’m known for being able to strike a fair bargain no matter who it is I’m dealing with. I’ll get you this dragonglass you need.”

Jon settled into the chair nestled close by the fire, squinted up at him. “Davos, it’s not just dragonglass we need, otherwise I _would_ send you.” 

Davos weighed that for a long moment and then spoke slowly, “You’re in a spot of trouble with this Lord Baelish.”

A sigh was his response. That and the lad sinking deeper into the chair, one hand rising to unstring the ties of his shirt. 

“What you won’t tell me, I cannot help you with,” Davos tried. 

Jon shook his head, “Even I don’t…,” he sighed, “before we go, I have papers that must be written and attested to. Ravens that must be sent to the Citadel and the Vale and the Riverlands with none the wiser. That is how you can help me for now.”

“If that’s what you need that’s what I’ll do. Never worry,” Davos turned to leave. When he’d nearly pushed the door open, Jon spoke again.

“You ought to know, my sister and I could not do this without you. Thank you.” 

“I don’t help you for thanks, but you’re welcome all the same, Your Grace.”

Davos slipped out, nodding once to the guards outside the door. “He’ll bathe and sleep most like. A quiet night for you fine gentlemen.”

“Aye. Unless Lady Sansa sends the direwolf down to summon him.”

Davos, about to walk off to find Wolkan and beg something to help him sleep, froze. As he stared, the other guard shifted his pike to his other arm and scoffed. “The direwolf is better than her sword maiden. Great big wench that she is, she’ll crush you as soon as you forget to call Lady Sansa, milady. Never mind that she’s some Southron get, and my family’s been at Winterfell for ten summers.”

He puffed up, one hand coming up to straighten the helm lying low on his brow. Davos hesitated a moment, then lowered his voice until both guards leaned in. “Lads I’m thinking our king wouldn’t want the castle knowing he’s being summoned like a stable boy by his younger sister.”

They blinked at him, both of the fools. Then they both nodded and grinned. Davos clapped them both on the shoulder and walked off, wondering. Jon and his sister were as odd a pair of siblings he’d ever seen, nothing about them called to mind his own sons and how they’d played with their one young sister. Or ignored, or teased. Then, his children hadn’t been highborn lords and ladies. Perhaps layering courtesy atop their feelings was normal for their family. Perhaps treating your young sister as though she was the queen, and you her servant, was to be expected. 

Although, he recalled some few instances where he’d come upon them truly quarreling, those rarely happened now that Winterfell was theirs once more. A strange sort of taut harmony sang between them. Whatever it was that lay beneath, they never let anyone lay eyes on it. Davos tucked his arms across his chest, as he climbed the long tower stair to the Wolkan’s chambers. The door was open at the top, warm, yellow light spilling over the flags. Davos peered around the door, eyes scanning the shelves and desk. It was unlike the man to leave such a mess. Scrolls lay unrolled, books were askew and stacked into uneven, untidy piles.

Straightening, Davos laid a hand on his belt where his knife lay. “Maester? You alright in here?” He flicked a look behind him as he spoke. A thump was all the response that greeted his words. Davos slid further into the room, shutting the tower door with his foot, and called for the man again. “Wolkan. Speak up man!”

“Ser Davos! Yes. I’ll be with you in a moment.” Noise followed the man’s words, footsteps. Davos kept a grip of his knife, until he could see that the man was alone. 

“Anything ailing you Maester?” Davos asked. “You look like a man who needs some rest.” Wolkan’s forehead was set into deep, troubled lines. Wolkan waved away the question and moved around Davos to fumble at the papers on his desk.

“Did something happen? Should I bring the guard?” Davos pressed. At that Wolkan swung around, alarm widening his eyes. 

“I am quite well, Ser. A scroll, a letter, is missing,” he paused, tucked his hands into his sleeves, “and I am trying to ascertain if any others have gone as well.”

Davos settled his knife home in its sheath and paced toward the desk. Looking down at it, “A letter seems the least of our worries. Was it something of importance?”

“Every letter is of importance in maintaining the history of Winterfell and the North, Ser,” Wolkan replied.

“That is true enough. Had the King or the Lady Sansa yet read it?” At his question, Wolkan’s hands shook the books that he’d been neatening across the desk and onto the floor. Davos watched the man stoop to pick them up, though all of him wanted to pull the maester up and shake him til a true answer spilled out. 

After a long silence, the maester spoke in a hush, “You are the king’s man, Ser Davos. I must say that although I respect him and follow his commands, I am not. I serve the Lady of Winterfell. If you and I are to live in Winterfell peacefully, I think that is all you need know.”

Davos planted a hip against the desk and thought for a moment as Wolkan went about cleaning the rest of his spilled papers. “You realize that Lady Sansa and her brother are of one mind. On the surface, at council,” Davos bent a smile on the other man, “they appear to be in conflict, but it’s just a mummer’s game they play. What one wants, the other does as well.”

“That’s as may be,” Wolkan replied, “but even so, there are a few things that His Grace does not need to know. Some stories that ought never be told. That ought to die lest they kill more.”

That disturbed Davos enough to stand straight from the desk. “Let me help you then. If you wish to swear me to silence, then I will do it man.”

Wolkan hesitated, hands working over themselves. Davos spoke again, urging, “We are in service to a pair of young folk with their hearts in the right place, you and me. We have to help them how we can, with none of this kingsman, queensman, uh lady’s man, nonsense. I used to be known as a fairly good smuggler, and thief, though don’t put that about it you would. If you’ve lost it and want it back, I’m your man.” Davos smiled at the other man, until he did too, briefly. 

Wolkan deflated, hands squeezed tight together. He nodded. 

“Good man. Then let’s sit, and work through where it might be.”

* * *

Some words reached him, from where he stood by his horse, but most of it was gone, floating away on the rising wind. Obscured by the crows, the cheers of the small folk, and the speculative conversation of the lords who’d come to see their king off on this hated errand.

Himself, he was glad, how could he not be? The lad deserved his family around him. The return of the other brother, never looked for, though he knew Jon had had deeply buried hopes after the death of the youngest boy, was cause for celebration. He only wished, selfishly, that his own boys could come through the gates as this young Brandon had done. Davos sighed, fingers reaching for his luck around his neck. If not his boys, then the little princess. He closed his eyes against the grief. There was no need to unpack it for all to see, even if they’d only be seeing an old man having a cry and think him happy for his king. 

Davos stumbled as his horse shifted under his hand, and looked around for the reason. He found it in Ghost, padding toward him. The wolf rarely appeared among crowds like the one that had gathered as news of Brandon’s return had spread. On toward him the beast came, at a slow lope, until Davos moved from his path. Ghost followed, never quite touching him, but it was clear enough that he was being herded. Davos threw his reins to one of the guards and let the wolf guide him. They moved through the crush, and folk shifted from his path like a wave receding out to sea. Then, Ghost was gone and all that remained in front of him was the wagon that Brandon had arrived in. Folk bustled about it—a dark haired girl, covered in pelts and furs, Lady Sansa beside her, cheeks as red as her hair. Tears fell, unheeded, as she hovered over a dark head being handed from the wagon and into a chair. Men at arms lifted the chair by the arms, Sansa and the girl following in their wake, and Jon, behind them all the while, stood across from Davos. 

The ice was gone from him, and it was the boy that he’d chivvied back to life at Castle Black that swayed there, eyes huge and leaden like a child awakened from a nap. Davos went to him, tossed an arm around the lad’s shoulders and hugged him close. After a stiff moment, the boy’s arms came around him and squeezed him tight. They separated, and Davos shook him by the shoulders, once. “He’s here and it feels like everything you’ve ever wanted, and it feels dangerous. But sometimes, child, the gods are kind. When they are, you hug the moment to your chest and pray that it lasts.”

Jon smiled, tremulous. “I stopped believing in the gods a long time ago,” he rasped, “but maybe I was wrong.”

“Maybe you were,” Davos replied. He pushed the lad toward the hall, “and maybe you weren’t.”

* * *

The lady Sansa flitted around the boy, from the fire to stoke it higher, to the settle to press more quilts around his shoulders, to the table for soup, and on until Jon caught her hand. They stared at each other like new born calves. All innocence and no awareness of the world about them. Davos looked to the boy, pale and red-cheeked and covered with furs. He offered a smile, secretively, when Davos met his eyes. 

“My sister hardly knows what to make of me. Jon is the same. They asked you here, as witness. Please sit, Ser Davos.”

Davos leaned on the door behind him until it clicked. Jon dropped his sister’s hand as though it burned him and turned. Davos raised both his hands until recognition came into Jon eyes. Then Davos walked gingerly, for the feeling in the room was not at all what he thought to find. After hours spent unraveling their plans to ride for White Harbor, a supper spent fielding questions that neither the king nor his sister were around to answer, Davos had meant to find his bed and sleep. Lady Brienne had found him, instead, marched him to Lady Sansa’s chambers, and all but pushed him through the door.

“Witness to what my lord?” Davos asked. 

“Please sit first,” the boy replied, and waited to speak again until Davos had settled himself into the chair at Jon’s side. 

“You are of Flea Bottom, of course. Everyone who knows their history, knows of Ser Davos Seaworth, who earned the right to be called the Onion Knight. Nan may have put you into her stories once or twice, when I was small.” 

Davos chuckled, “Well, earn is certainly an odd word to use, if you’ll forgive me saying so. But yes, I am that Seaworth.”

Bran nodded, “You had four sons, and now of them all, a daughter remains to you. Though you had also loved Stannis Baratheon’s daughter, Shireen, as your own. You were kind. Kinder than anyone else. She loved you, as well.”

The boy looked at him, waiting for him to speak. Davos kept silent, misliking the turn the talk had taken. He chanced a look at Jon, wondering at why he had shared his hurt over Shireen and the Red Woman with his brother. Of all the things they could have spoken on, an old done man and his children seemed a strange topic. 

“Jon would not share a confidence, even the hint of one, Ser Davos. You may trust his discretion more than that,” the child continued, and Davos shivered.

“My brother has not spoken of you at all, not even to give me your name. Yet, I know it. As I know the names of your friends, your first ship, the first woman who invited you to her bed. I saw how you stumbled over the word knight when you read it aloud at Shireen Baratheon’s side. Nigit. I said as much myself, when I first learned to read. You have kept your vows well Ser Knight.”

“You’ll be forgiving me for any offense if I ask you what sorcery is this,” Davos stood. “I don’t find much frightens me these days and at this age, but you—.”

“Forgive me,” the child replied, and if there was even a shade of apology in his voice, Davos could not hear it. He drew back, intending to leave. “Forgive me, but I have been a long time away from home and people. Learning what I learned takes a toll. I must be cold, else I’ll go mad.” 

He continued, more quietly, “But you see that I tell you truths that no one could know.”

“Oh aye. You’re telling truths alright. Ones I’d prefer you didn’t. So if we are done—.”

“We’ve only just begun. I’ve told a truth to Jon and Sansa, and now that they see that I know what I cannot know, they believe me,” the boy looked away from him, head tilted toward Jon. 

Davos looked between the two of them, bewildered and hot in a way that he only rarely felt from a pure burning anger. He’d just barely buried the boys and Shireen, and the wife who would certainly never want to see him again, in his heart, and this child had dredged it up. How he had dredged it from where it had been hidden, was the mystery. 

“You see that it must be true,” he said, to Jon. “It fits, all the little things Father said and did, the way he would never, ever speak of her. How he allowed Mother to hide you when King Robert came, when in every other way you were Robb’s equal.” 

“I am a bastard, either way,” Jon replied.

“You are not and never were.” 

“You’re a prince.” Lady Sansa’s voice cut through them both. Her voice grated queerly, “He stole her, he married her, he had a son of her. Our aunt. Lyanna.” 

“No.” Jon snarled the word.

“He did,” Sansa replied, insistent, “And for all that you’re the King in the North now, on the strength of our father’s name and your own right arm, it doesn’t undo that you’re not his son. You’re his nephew and our cousin and the rightful lord of the Seven Kingdoms. That’s what you are.”

“I thought I was a Stark to you.” Jon turned to her. Davos clenched his fists at the gutted sound of the lad’s voice.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Davos, his heart beating so hard he could feel it uncomfortable his throat, spoke into the silence. “You all have ambushed me with this, but I’m fairly sure I understand the most of it. Jon here,” he laid a hand on the lad’s shoulder and squeezed it until the boy ceased staring at the lady. “Jon here is the legitimate heir of your aunt, her who was kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen. Your young brother has somehow gotten proof of this. And what? You want to ride off South? Have your revenge for the Red Wedding and have Jon put his arse on the Iron Throne? Listen to an old man, you don’t need to be anywhere near Kings Landing, now or ever. That place isn’t for you.”

Under his hand, Jon’s shoulders shook. Davos peered at him, confused, then realized that the lad was laughing.


	9. Peril Unto You, Danger Unto Me

“A funny sort of letter,” the parchment hung from Daenerys’ fingertips. It _was_ a curious letter, all the more so that it was completely unexpected. Her Hand’s mouth had lain agape the entire time that she had read it, and Varys had been little better. 

Tyrion reached for the wine, poured himself a swallow, and tossed it back. He did it twice more before he slammed the cup and flask onto her table. “Our invitation cannot have reached him, that is the only explanation.”

“And his reach is much longer than we expected,” Varys murmured. The words floated on the sea breeze, carried to her ear and settled there, as welcome as salt water on a thirsty day. 

“I was not aware that we were to be concerned about Jon Snow’s long arm. I thought,” Daenerys looked at Tyrion, as his arm reached for the flask again. His hand retreated back to his lap. She sighed. They were barely begun and already he had emptied three flasks of her strongest red.

“I thought this Jon Snow was someone you trusted,” she continued and came around the table toward Tyrion. He grimaced as she took the flask and passed it to Missandei. Missandei smiled at her, and Daenerys found a smile for her in return. She didn’t feel much like smiling and hadn’t for days. Plans had been laid, her allies were following her commands, and with any fortune, she and her soldiers would soon sail into the mouth of Blackwater Bay. 

Yet, it was a dry sort of pleasure. It lacked. She would not let her mind dwell on Daario. He would certainly have brought spice to the endless strategy sessions, but Tyrion had been right that a queen needed more than a sellsword at her side. A queen in Westeros needed better than a boy born outside its borders and on the wrong side of the sheets.

Daenerys slid the scroll open again. _Your Grace, word has reached even so far north as Winterfell of your beauty and your strength._

She let it roll shut. “So he proposes an alliance to destroy Cersei.”

“Well yes, Your Grace. Presumably...,” Varys paused. 

“Yes? What? Is it suspect?” Daenerys asked. His look was strange. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but the war touched the Starks just as much as it did every other family of the realm. Jon Snow’s father was never meant to be Lord of Winterfell, and he wouldn’t have been had your father not killed his grandfather and eldest uncle. The Starks have long memories,” Varys replied.

“Ah yes, the North remembers,” Tyrion said on a groan. “Well, I’m sure the two Starks and the rest of them left in the North remember what my father, my sister and her fool son did to their dear old Ned, more painfully than they do a grandfather that they never met. Expediency is a trait bastard sons have in spades. I should know.” He graced her with a sour smile, one finger circling the rim of his cup and the bead of wine that lay on its lip. 

He looked away, shaking the wine off. “Let us write back. See where this courtship takes us, my queen.”

Daenerys stared back and forth between them. “That is your council. Pretend as though we haven’t asked Jon Snow here to bend the knee? And instead, seduce him. By letter? That gains us nothing I could not have by other means.” She flings a hand toward the board, reaches a finger toward the North where its direwolf markers lay quiescent. 

“I could go, obtain their fealty, and return while the Martells and Tyrells sweep Cersei from the field. My dragons,” Daenerys grasped one of the carved ones and slammed it down in the center of table, “even one can bring the North to heel. Then—.”

Tyrion had risen while she’d been talking and laid a warm hand over hers where she gripped the figurine. She looked down at him, and realized that her breathing had risen. He tilted a look at her, and squeezed her hand once. 

“You could, if that is your wish.” Daenerys heaved a sigh and retreated from the table to look out over the water. She wished, more than anything, to be away riding Drogon. Somewhere. Going North to Winterfell would do as well as anywhere else. 

“My queen, perhaps, I could pen the letter for you?” Missandei asked into the silence. “In it, I might tell the lord of your wish for him to come to Dragonstone so that he might prove his intent by swearing himself to you.”

“You may,” Daenerys turned away from the dragons wheeling in the distance, and the door to the chamber opened to admit Greyworm. Shouldering past Varys and Tyrion, he stopped in front of her and spoke. 

“Greyjoy ships are ambushed; Highgarden is under siege.”

Daenerys stumbled forward. She would scarcely believe but for the fact that Greyworm had never lied to her. She turned to Tyrion. His jaw hung free, eyes huge. “Tell me that your plan was not so transparent as this. Tell me that you have not caused us to fail before we’ve even begun.”

His silence started her throat to tightening and the prick of tears burned at her eyes. She clenched a fist in the stuff of her gown, shaking her head, and brushed by him for the door. Varys moved from her way, though he spoke before she could leave the room, Greyworm at her heels. 

“It is a battle lost, my queen, not the war. The Tyrells and the Martells have heirs, if their principals are killed. And your own armies are untouched.”

Daenerys stopped, the anger rushing hard through her veins. She can hardly hear him over the pounding in her chest. 

“Perhaps you may have more to add to your letter to this Jon Snow, Missandei,” Varys continued. Daenerys swung around to face him, thrown from her anger. 

“What do you mean?”

“The King in the North must have armies of his own, otherwise how would he have retaken Winterfell from the Boltons. If he wants to see Cersei Lannister dead, he cannot think to have you do all the work for him.” He smiled, conspiratorially and eager. 

Daenerys approached him and smiled in return, sweet as she could make it, up at him. “My lord, you are clever. Missandei,” she leaned around the man and beckoned. 

“Tell this Jon Snow we would be glad to entertain him and his army here at Dragonstone, and hear more of this talk about my beauty and my strength. When you have written it, send it thrice so that no further letters will be lost.”

She looked at Tyrion, who bowed, deep. He kept his mouth firmly shut for once. “My Hand will assist you, and then he will join me to arrange our counterattack.”

“I will, Your Grace,” was his reply. Daenerys tilted her head at him and then left. Lady Olenna had been right. When had she succeeded, when she listened to a man? 

Not once.

* * *

“And this man is Yara Greyjoy’s father’s brother. Uncle,” Missandei spoke, doubtfully. Daenerys glanced up at her. 

“To say uncle is much quicker than father’s brother,” Daenerys replied. She fingered one long braid where it lay over her shoulder, as Missandei twisted the others into place. 

“Yet, alone, the word is imprecise. Is it an uncle related to your mother? One’s father? Is it a true uncle at all or simply a relationship with affection borne on both sides?” Her fingers pressed and tucked, then with a pat, announced that she was finished.

Daenerys chuckled, and rising, captured Missandei’s hands and grinned at her. She could trust one person, at least, to distract her. She had never thought that debates about word choice would be her escape from the pressures of ruling, but she supposed it was better than seeking release in a pleasure house. If the Seven Kingdoms had such things.

“Lady Yara’s uncle is one related by blood, true enough. And I suppose that is what brought him here,” Daenerys tugged then both toward the door, down the darkened halls and emerged, hidden behind the rock that served as throne. The uncle, Euron, paced from one side of the hall to the other, lingering to whisper at Tyrion or Varys, grin at her Unsullied. He did rather look like he belonged aboard a ship, reaping and reaving as Iron Islanders were said to do.

After another moment, Daenerys nodded Missandei forward. The girl stepped into the light from the high windows and spoke, “My lord.”

He turned to her, smiling brightly, eyes obvious in their path. “You ain’t no Targaryen.”

Missandei inclined her head and stepped down to stand before the throne. Behind, Daenerys mirrored her, until she was standing in front of the carved seat. 

His eyes, a pale watery blue with a small sharp dot in the middle like a hawk’s, pinned her. The smile, which did not waver, was not in his eyes. They appraised, much as her brother’s had once. Like Magister Illryio’s, and all the rest. 

Missandei, toughened to such men, raised her voice again. “You stand in the presence of Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of her Name, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” her voice rang, proud, down the length of the hall. 

Daenerys sat once the echo had died. “Welcome, my lord. They tell me,” she waved a hand at her advisors, “that you come with gifts.”

He watched her a moment more, then slowly bent to one knee and ducked his head. “A more beautiful queen there never was. My niece always had the best eye.” 

She let that pass without comment and waited for Tyrion to intervene. They had not spoken since his failure, but he would not like this man and keeping his mouth shut would be impossible. 

“Euron Greyjoy. I can’t say I’m surprised to see you back in Westeros. You must have chased your niece and nephew for months before you realized where they’d gone,” Tyrion paused for a moment, then said in a different voice. “What have you done with them?”

He grinned, like a wild thing and leapt to his feet. “Oh now, that’s family business. I had thought, why not send them to her that’s keeping the Iron Throne warm for whoever the next taker is? But my Yara, she’s a thinker. Her father chose her to lead the Iron Islanders, and my brother may have been as dumb a shit as the Islands ever had to rule them, but he wasn’t always wrong. So I took them in tow, and now we’re all here. Reunited.” He spun away from where he had minced close to Tyrion and approached her. The Unsullied shifted in their places along the walls, and Daenerys raised a hand. 

“Family business,” Daenerys replied, low. She had memory enough of family business between herself and Viserys. “All matters that are of import to my subjects, are of importance to me. Where is Yara Greyjoy? What of her brother?”

“They’re in irons, Your Grace. As they should be for theft. Soon enough they’ll lose their heads, as they should for treason,” he replied, and settled his thumbs in his belt comfortably. “That don’t matter of course. For I’ve brought their soldiers and their ships back to you. What they swore, I’ll swear too. My life for yours, all that.” He swept a look around the room, “My children to fill your halls.”

“Why would I want your children?” Daenerys asked, despite herself. He was rude, his grin was an affront, and the look in his eyes was as cold as the sea. 

“I’ve got ships and gold and soldiers, which you’ll need to win your wars and rule your lands. Who else got that but me? The Kingslayer still has his head stuffed up his sister’s skirts, they say. The little brother well, he ain’t good for much besides whores they say. Never even had a sally with that Stark girl they set him with. Tully? Married with a babe. Arryn. Is the boy still alive? Last I heard he had a palsy." He shifted close enough to place his foot on the steps to her throne, and her Unsullied came off the walls toward her. She did not stop them this time, and they brought their spears around to stop Greyjoy from ascending any further.

“You don’t want my children, Your Grace. You’ll need ‘em,” he said from behind the wall of weapons. Daenerys stood, walked down the steps, her Unsullied moving with her as she approached him. At her nod, they peeled away to either side of her so that she could look upon the man’s face. 

“You prevent my subjects from carrying out my orders. You commandeer my ships; you forestall my plan. You make no apologies for any of these actions, and then attempt to woo me? Ser, you are a fool if you think I shall give you my hand.” She stared at him, misliking how her heart pounded in her chest.

“Don’t want just your hand, Your Grace,” his smiled dropped, as did his voice. “Give me a try. See if I can’t bring you what you need. Little silver haired brats roaming your halls, the Seven Kingdoms under your hand, and me by your side.” His hand grasped hers and brought it to his lips. He pressed a kiss to it and then backed away, arms outstretched. The guards tackled him to the ground as he laughed. They marched him away, his laughter echoing down the hall as he went. 

When he was gone, Dany bit her lip. He was not wrong. Tyrion hadn’t been wrong when he’d told her to leave Daario behind. She needed the blood of Westeros by her side, if she wished to lay claim to Westeros. And the blood of Westeros was sparse. 

“My queen,” Tyrion had approached as Euron had been taken away. “I would ask you not to listen to him. Of all people, _he_ is the last person you need at your side. The people of Westeros barely acknowledge the Iron Islands, and for good reason. They’ll call you—.”

“Stop. I know when not to trust a man,” she looked at him for a moment. “I have much experience with that.” She turned away from him, glancing at Missandei. 

“What do you think of him?” 

“I dare not say,” Missandei replied, quietly. Her eyes met her own and then dropped to the floor. Daenerys wrapped her arm around the other girls’ and took them back down the hall the way they had come. “You have dared much, always. You are brave and smart, and I depend upon you for your counsel and much else besides. Now, what say you?”

At her side, Missandei shivered once and Daenerys rubbed a hand up and down her back. Westeros was cold, she supposed, to a girl who had lived all her life in the desert cities of Essos. Herself, she embraced it. This was her home. A little chill was nothing to a dragon. 

“He does not say what has happened to your other subjects, Your Grace. It you were to permit any lord to sit beside you, he should have a care for your subjects. As you do,” she replied, finally. They came into the solar, and Daenerys went straightaway to the edge. Her dragons were distant, dark specks over the sea, the ships with their golden kraken banners beneath them. There were more of them than there had been just a few weeks before. Her numbers swelled, even as the lady Olenna and Highgarden was lost to her. The Martells, if they had survived Euron’s attack, could still play their part. If they had perished, then she would give their families justice, once she had come into her throne. 

Daenerys turned her back on the sea, and her ships, and her dragons, feeling as settled as she had since returning to Meereen atop Drogo’s back. She sat in her chair at the end of the table and called to Missandei at the other end of the room. 

“Let us finish the letter to this Jon Snow.”


	10. The Hedge Knight

“Arry!” She’d already swung up in the saddle when Hot Pie barreled through the inn’s doors and stumbled to a stop at her horse’s flank. He reached a stretch of canvas up to her, the smell of the pie leeching through the fabric. 

“It’ll keep you warm on the road”, he said, then hesitated as she took it from him. He waved off the coin she tried to press into his hand. “It’s alright. These are the ones I’d made for myself. I just...You and me, we’re the last of the Nights Watch recruits from Kings Landing. We have to take care of ourselves. Don’t you get ambushed by no Gold Cloaks!” He moved off, haphazard grin deepening the dimples in his cheeks. 

For all that Hot Pie wasn’t her real brother, she felt something for him. She gave him a smile, stiff though it felt on her face, and laid her heels into the horse’s flanks. Down the road, there was the fork. One path north, one south. She reached into her pocket, the one that lay close against her skin and pulled free the iron coin that Jaqen had given her, an age ago. 

For the South was the Faceless Man. Bland on the outside, changeable as the sea, but always filled with purpose. For the North were the words. _Valar morgulis. Valar dohaeris._ She flipped it, tracked its movements and caught it, like a trout in a stream and slapped it onto the back of her hand. 

South. 

Home would survive. If Jon and Sansa were alive and had managed somehow to take it back, then somehow they would last a while longer without her.

She fingered the coin, nails tracing the grooves of the words. There was no one to say that they would even want her home. Sansa hadn’t much liked her, no matter what she did. Once she’d thought Jon would always love her, even when no one else did. But love had limits. Love was not all-powerful. Surely, if it had been, her lady mother would still be alive, and Robb too. Though that ignored Jon and Sansa at Winterfell. She scrubbed the coin hard with the pad of her thumb. 

Going south on this road might lead her home to Winterfell all the same. She shook the reins, steering the little mare onto the path that headed south. As she went, she tossed the coin over her shoulder. She’d made a choice, leaving the House of Black and White. There could be no going back. 

She was Arya Stark, not a Faceless Man, but she would play at being one for a little while longer.

* * *

She remembered the tumbledown farmsteads, more vividly than anything else. Each one of the barns and cottages that she’d ransacked. All of the mornings she’d spent by some stream or tree, hunting cats and rats and rabbits, practicing what Syrio Forel had gifted her. It was strange to ride now backwards, as though she was losing time.

Even the Hound’s face was the same. 

Over the tops of his mount’s ears, he gaped at her. He and the Lightening Lord, Beric, and Thoros, and the dregs that remained of the Brotherhood without Banners. Arya leaned over her horse’s neck, one hand patting its flank close to where her blade lay strapped. 

“I don’t suppose you’re going to sell me to any red haired witches are you?” She called across the stream to them. Thoros laughed, sliding down from his horse. He hobbled it and crouched on his haunches at the edge of the stream.

Splashing himself, he spoke, all amusement, “Little lady, the time for skirmishes is quite over. Hadn’t you heard? The King in the North has summoned all who can fight to the North. He intends to raise a great army to fight the dead.” He laughed again. “Any poor sod brave enough to answer the call will be rewarded with land of their own when the battle is done.”

Arya’s hand came down hard, and the horse jibbed and side-stepped, until she brought herself under control. “The dead. What does that mean?”

“It means what it sounds like girl,” the Hound replied. He still looked pole-axed, but it was giving way to anger. Arya marked it and settled a hand on the pommel of her blade. He snorted then, waving a hand and looking away. 

“I’m not going to attack you wolf girl. No time for that,” he looked her up and down, eyes piercing right through her, as they had done often enough in the past. She clamped down on her need to shift away from his look. She was no summer child any longer, and she’d never been afraid of the Hound. 

“We’re going North. To Winterfell. Isn’t that where you’d meant to go? Your mother and brother are dead, but the bastard and your sister are there. Why are you going south on the kingsroad?” he asked, and Arya hesitated not at all before she answered him.

“I had a list.”

The Hound and she looked at one another, until finally he nodded. “You did. Good luck with all that. I’ll tell your brother and sister that you’re off murdering.” 

Arya made to shrug and then stopped, feeling embarrassed and hot. The Hound had gotten under her skin. “You can tell them what you like.” She gathered her reins in one hand, turning her horse to continue along the road. 

“My lady, you ought to ride to Winterfell with us,” Beric called to her.

“Why _ought_ I do that?” she replied, frustration with herself growing. She was a fool, forgetting all her training. 

“The realms have need of every fighter in this battle against the Night King. You will be needed too. Thoros has seen you in the flames.” Arya pulled her horse to a stop, and turned in the saddle to face them. The three of them stared at her, guileless. They believed what they were saying. 

“The Night King is a tale my nurse told me,” she said, derisive as she could make it. Yet, even as she spoke she wondered if that was true. Nan had told them stories about the Night King and the Others and ice dragons. And the last hero. Why could those not be true, if being a Faceless Man was? Perhaps she could change skins, even. 

If it were all true though, then was there any meaning to her list? If it were true, was there any meaning to all that she had suffered and learned? Was there any meaning to all the deaths she had given? If they were all to die anyway, what did anything matter?

She turned around in the saddle and gazed down the road. Cersei Lannister’s death lay at the end of this path. 

“Look here wolf girl,” the Hound had walked his horse across the stream and stopped beside her. “Look,” he said again and grabbed her by the shoulder. Her eyes tracked over his scars, and some strange part of her wondered if he would’ve ever wanted to learn to change faces. 

“It is easy, isn’t it. Sticking them with the pointy end. It gets easier every time, until the best thing in the world, it seems, is killing. I told your sister that once. It was a lie. So go on, if you want to keep lying to yourself. Finish the list. You’ll end up like I did.”

Arya glared at him, teeth digging blood from her lip. “That’s not me. I never hurt anyone the way you did. I never cut anyone down for no good reason the way you did!”

“Didn’t you? Them Freys are all dead, aren’t they? All of them. Not just them that murdered your mother and brother. How many more you going to kill, girl?” He shook her, once, hard. “Did you even spare the children? Or did the North misremember who was at the Red Wedding?”

“Well if you’re telling the truth, they all are going to die anyway, so what does it matter?” Arya shouted at him and ducked out of his crushing hold on her arm. 

They stared at each other from a few paces away, and Arya hauled in gasping breath after breath, her chest rising and falling like she’d just finished running. 

“Go on then, killer. Ride away South,” the Hound said. 

Arya wrenched her eyes away from him and spurred her horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a little break to deal with Real Life, so here are two chapters this week. I'll be back in August :)


	11. In the Name of the Father

_I did what I thought was right. I got murdered for it._ It felt as though he lived those words day in and day out. In reverse somehow. His life as a queer mirror of his fathers. His uncle’s. Both of them. Perhaps even an echo of the man who’d stolen his mother as though she were no more than a goat.

Perhaps that was his fate. To fight and die, until there was nothing left of him but an arm and the sword Lord Commander Mormont had remade for him. _Never drop it again_ , he’d said, and it had become a curse. He was a sword in the darkness.And it didn’t matter that he’d never truly wanted to be, that he would have foresworn honor and ridden South for Robb, and left saving the realm to other men.The true threat, he’d talked of it to and at enough people to know that they didn’t much care.And if he were honest, neither did he.

“I am tired,” he said into the silence of the room. He looked over to Bran, or whatever demon had possessed him. “Tired of fighting and honor and duty. Tired of sleep that brings me no rest. Whatever deluded prophecy led that man to _steal_ my mother I want no part of it.”

Bran quirked a small smile at him, and he was no longer a prophet, or a seer, but the boy he’d taught to string a bow, to feed his wolf, to climb. Join ground his teeth together, the scar over his heart had begun to ache. 

“We are all weary. But we have our parts to play. And we must. For the Night King comes.”

Jon scrubbed his hands over his face and then left them there, hiding his eyes from their view. He wanted to crash his way out of the room, find the strongest ale he could and drink until he couldn’t think, couldn’t see, couldn’t feel. 

“Jon…,” Davos began.

“What? Say it. What else worse could there be?” When Davos did not respond, Jon looked up at him, to find that he was looking at Sansa, mouth drawn down into a worrisome frown. “What?” Jon repeated, and looked between them.

A knock sounded on the door, and both of them jumped as if shot. Jon stood, every bone in his body protesting, and pulled it open. On the other side stood Wolkan. He bowed and thrust a scroll forward. “This arrived a moment ago, Your Grace. A letter from Daenerys Targaryen.”

Jon backed away from the door, everything within him quailing at the thought of even touching the scroll Wolkan held outstretched. He could not do it. He could not be what Bran said he was. Wolkan peered at him, no doubt bewildered at whatever he’d found in Jon’s face, but Jon could no more speak or move than he could control his expression. His chest ached, burned terribly. Frozen there, he stared at Wolkan, seeing the other man’s mouth move but could not hear the words. 

Then something cool and sweet pressed itself to his cheek, wound around him, and Jon found he could breathe again. He leaned into it and after a moment realized that Sansa was there. Just as she’d been there before, when he’d awakened and found the world more cruel and dirty than he’d ever thought possible. When she drew her hand down, fingers flitting through the curls of his beard, he shivered. She turned from him then, and spoke to the maester. 

“Come in and shut the door, Maester Wolkan. Give whatever it is, to me.” She shifted, one arm still twined about his, to reach for the scroll, and then turned into him, wide-eyed. Jon nodded at her, and she slit the wax with a nail.

“To the King in the North, Jon Snow,” Sansa paused then went on, bemused, “we wish to invite you and your army to Dragonstone so we might...might join our strengths as allies and plan for the defeat of Cersei Lannister.” Sansa ceased reading in a whisper. Jon snatched the letter from her hand, skipping over the words. 

“My reply? I did not write a letter. I sent her nothing! What is this?” He advanced toward Wolkan, who backed from him, chain links clanking against each other. 

“My king, I have sent nothing, I promise you! Please, since, the loss of Lady Sansa’s letter, I have hardly left the rookery for fear that some malcontent will steal a raven and send it flying around the whole of the North.” Jon looked at the man, bewildered.

“What?” 

Wolkan jumped, bowing his head. 

“Speak ma—,” Jon began to urge him, trying to keep his voice level. 

Davos replied instead, “Err. I found myself helping Maester Wolkan some time ago. He’d lost something, and he and I tried our damndest to find the thing, but couldn’t.”

“What does Wolkan losing something have to with Sansa’s letter?” Jon asked.

From behind him, Sansa replied, quietly, “It was proof of what a stupid little girl I was,” she said. “I wrote a letter, Cersei and Varys and Littlefinger all staring at me as I asked Robb to put down his arms and armor and ride south to swear fealty to Joffrey.”

Jon sighed, glancing down at the letter in his hand. “Two bloody letters that would both be better for never having been. Three even, whoever wrote and sent the first to Dragonstone.” He considered for a moment, and then, “You would never have found the letter Davos.”

Sansa, barely a breath away from him, gazed at him steadily. “My...,” Jon cleared his throat and started again. “Lady Sansa holds it. Littlefinger presented her with it, no doubt.” His lip curled, and he knew his voice shook with anger as he continued, “Presented her with it, and trapped her all at once.”

It was true, he could see it in her eyes. Stoic though she might seem to others, it was all too easy to tell when Sansa was riled. Afraid. Jon closed his eyes. 

“I need sleep,” he moved away from Sansa, until the cool air flooded the space between them.“Davos, I will see you in the morning.Bran…,” Jon trailed off, then mustered himself again.“I can’t thank you.But you’re home and we’ll set this right.All of it.”A Northern crown shouldn’t have been his, not to begin with, not when Sansa had brought the Vale to their aid, and not now after what they had learned.Bran home meant that he and Sansa and all their lords could find a proper way to relieve him of it, and give Robb’s birthright to whom it truly belonged. 

Jon peeled out of the room, banging his way out into the frigid hall and walked.The sconces were lit, and flickered as he passed them, bending and bowing.What had he looked like?Had she loved him at all?Or had he treated her like a girl of the Free Folk and taken her from her bed and kept her prisoner?His mind skirled along the paths he’d trodden for as long as he’d known what bastard had meant, until his vision was dark and the cold bit through his skin like a living thing. 

He stopped then, chin rising from his chest and looked about him.Out of doors, the sun down, the yard was splashed with shadows.Behind every corner hidden in darkness his memories walked.Memories of the man he’d called Father in his heart and _my lord_ for all the rest of Winterfell to hear, as if by good manners alone he’d make them see he wasn’t a bastard.That he was as good as Robb in most things, and better at a few.His stomach threatened suddenly, clenching painfully tight, and Jon wrapped his arms tight around his middle and walked on, until the door that he’d wanted was in front of him, and the stairs and the tapers and flint.He struck them, until the taper caught flame and sought for the likeliness the stoneworkers had attempted.

It came into view, rearing out of the darkness, tall and broad, as Jon remembered him always.They’d made him kneel and tell out a lie at the end, Sansa’d told him.Of Joffrey being the one true king.Had he wanted to cry with the stupidity of it when he realized that they were to take his head?He must have wanted to scream at them that the one, true king was alive in the North.But that would’ve killed Sansa straightaway.And though liar Ned Stark might have been, he wouldn’t have put Sansa’s life in danger, not that way. 

Jon’s eyes burned and blurred suddenly, the pain in his belly and chest sharp and twisting.He fell to his knees in front of the statue, gasping for breath.Minutes passed, or hours, and then the pain passed, and he huddled, shivering, at the foot of his uncle’s statue. 

A warm weight settled across his shoulders and pooled around his legs.The lights were brighter; his one taper had been joined by a host.And Sansa, tall and fair, hair gleaming in the candlelight, having cloaked him, kneeled beside him. 

He stared at her, as she looked up into her father’s face.“In Kings Landing, I heard that there were artisans that would set your likeness to canvas, just as soon as carve it from stone.I wish I had asked him to make one.”

“He wouldn’t have stood for it, even if you asked,” Jon replied.He opened his mouth to thank her, when she turned to him, the bright blue of her eyes muted by the darkness around them. 

“Don’t thank me when I’ve put you in danger,” she said before he could speak. 

“You taught me my courtesies Sansa.I’ve never forgotten them,” he swallowed the rest of his words.That she alone of them all hadn’t ever called him bastard, that even though they’d barely known each other then, he knew not how he would survive what was coming without her now.

“He told me once, that a lady’s brothers were her sworn swords, that her kinsman were her last resort when she was in danger and that half-brother or no, I was to trust you would protect me.Father always knew he could depend on you, you see.”Sansa faced him, hands lacing together and unlacing as if part of a dance.Jon watched her fingers for a long moment, as she hesitated, then inched toward her and placed his hand atop hers.He could feel her still. 

“Robb couldn’t protect me, neither could Father in the end.But he tried, and I think… I think he tried to protect you Jon,” she looked at him, hopeful, and so sweet he could feel the ache in his chest begin again.He gave her a smile, then stood and pulled her up with him. 

“Thank you, Sansa,” he began, but stopped as she shook her head. 

“But they failed, to protect themselves, to protect our family, to protect the North.I’m not going to fail, Jon.And I’m not going to let you go South and be endangered,” she paused, searching his face, then went on, “Ser Davos says that when he served Stannis Baratheon there was talk of alliance between Stannis’ brother Renly and Robb.But that after Renly died, Stannis learned that his elder brother had fathered a bastard.”Jon twitched, his hands and Sansa’s nearly flying apart.She captured them again, bending a stern look at him.

“Listen.There was a boy that Stannis found, born in Kings Landing, named Gendry.And Stannis acknowledged him as Robert’s son.”

“Gods Sansa.Why do I care about Robert Baratheon’s illegitimate son?Am I to be overjoyed that it wasn’t just Targaryen princes fathering bastards?That Baratheon princes did it too?Should I go find him and tell him it isn’t so bad?If you’re lucky, they’ll set a crown on your head.Never mind it should’ve gone to your sister.”He felt he was teetering on the edge of shouting and ground his teeth together.

“You still think I’m trying to undermine you,” Sansa replied, flat. 

“I don’t think anything.I know—.”

“You know nothing.If you would listen to me, you would understand that what I want is for you to go south and find this Gendry and distract Daenerys and Cersei with him.Make them worry about him, make them consumed with the idea of there being a son of Baratheon blood still remaining to take the Iron Throne.While they bluster and fight about him, you travel south and obtain the glass we need, and leave.What will they care about the North or our fight with the Night King, when they have their own battles to fight over the throne?”She gazed at him, eyes sharp now as the candles grew stronger. 

“You want me to throw this boy to the mercy of Cersei Lannister, and having done that, leave him?” Jon stared at her. 

Sansa frowned at him.“Tyrion says that Daenerys can be trusted.You trust Tyrion.I at least don’t disbelieve all he says.Who is to say that this Daenerys won’t simply marry Gendry and have done with it?And besides, he will have Ser Davos, whom you trust, don’t you?”

“Ser Davos,” Jon replied doubtfully. 

“He can’t stay in the North forever.He has a family in the Stormlands.And this Gendry, he says that they have some affection.”

Jon dipped his head, sighing.“Do you never stop?”

“If I let you have your way, you would sit here for three days, wondering why Father never told you, even as the answer is as plain as the nose on your face.He meant to protect you, and he did what he could.He didn’t need your respect or your love to do it.He treated you, as you treat me,” Sansa snapped the words and tightened her fingers around his.“Or has that changed now that you are my aunt’s son and not my father’s?”

“You know it hasn’t.” Jon looked at her again, truly this time, beyond the tightness of her eyes, to the firm line of her mouth, to the ruddy color of her cheeks and hair.“That never will,” he spoke softly, and watched her relax. 

His chest hurt and his eyes, and from his head to his toes he wanted run back to the day he’d left Winterfell and beg for someone to tell him the truth.But Sansa was here, and they had what they had built together and he couldn’t exchange it.He wouldn’t change it, not even for the truth. 

* * *

It was a sort of spell, a magic, all of her own. She called and they came, some reluctantly, some with such fervor it straddled a place between farce and fancy. The wind, lively and wild, drove them to huddle close about her as if her hair was a true flame. Jon looked down upon them, one hand resting upon the rail until his movement caught Lady Brienne’s eye. She rustled toward Sansa’s side, smooth and easy, until there was space enough for Sansa to breathe. 

“Our mother was wise to trust Lady Brienne.” Bran’s voice rose from behind him, and Jon half-turned to look at him. 

“Lady Catelyn always cared for you all. She chose her successor as well as she could I think,” Jon replied. He hesitated a moment, then went on, “And you best of all, Bran.”

The bare hint of a smile lifted one corner of Bran’s lips. “She always scolded me for climbing. When the old king Robert came to us, I climbed then too,” he unburied a hand from his coverlets, and pointed a thin finger toward the Old Keep, “and when she caught me I promised I wouldn’t climb again. She thought I lied.” 

Jon watched the smile flatten, as Bran spoke once more. 

“I thought I lied.” His eyes turned away from the tower and met Jon’s own. “For his lover’s sake, and his own, Jaime Lannister turned my lie into a truth. But I fly now. And so must you, cousin.”

A step, creaking, announced the person they waited for, and Jon swept around to look down into the yard. The group there had spun in place somehow, and Sansa looked straight up into his eyes. He could not look away, trapped like a fly in honey. She did not speak; just stood, pretending to listen to the men about her. She released him after a long, airless moment, and Jon hauled in a breath. 

At the corner of his eye, he could see Baelish approaching, heard his greeting to Bran, and Bran’s taciturn reply. Jon felt Baelish draw close and settle at the rail, half leaning over it, as if he wished he could be down in the yard. His voice was benign as he spoke, attentive even. “My king, you wished to speak with me. How may I serve?”

Jon turned into him and waited until Baelish straightened. As he did, Jon summoned a smile. “I am sure Lady Stark has told you of the North’s need.”

“Yes, she has,” he brushed his hands over his cloak, fidgeted with his gloves, then looked straight at him. Through him. “A direct invitation, two of them, from the Dragon Queen and her Hand, this Tyrion Lannister. I must admit, Your Grace, that while I am overjoyed at the trust you and Sansa have given me, it is reassuring that you and I will be leaving her well-attended by her brother here. He is a strapping young man isn’t he?”

Baelish looked Bran over, mummer’s fierce smile pasted onto his face. Bran surveyed him in turn. 

“The maester should have a look at you, little lord. There may be life in your legs yet, and if not, then perhaps even I might find some way to alleviate your ailment. After all, a young lord handsome as yourself cannot remain unmarried for long. My own stepson is causing chaos in the Eyrie as we speak, having discovered that not all girls are mothers or sisters or nursemaids.” 

Bran replied, laconic and unhurried, “I have my mind. That is all I need. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Littlefinger’s smile edged toward something real, and he nodded once. “It is a good start, certainly. Having the right family name usually eases one’s ascension up the ladder.”

“Well the children we need you to find won’t have the right name. But they’ll have his look. And the folk around them will stand witness for the truth of their birth. No bells rang for them when they came into the world, but they are still his blood. They are still Baratheon blood, and they must be found. The people of the South need to know they have a choice.”

“It is inspired, my king. I will grant you that. And as we resume our aborted travels, I promise you I will find them all. You have my word on that.” 

Jon watched him for a moment, then replied carefully, "You and me, we haven’t spoken properly,” Jon replied. “I have been...the truth of a man is hard to know, until you see him with your own eyes. I let others do my judging for me, and for that I must ask your forgiveness, my lord.”

“I cannot blame you, Your Grace. Where there is excellence, there is also jealousy. I’m sure you know that all too well,” Baelish replied. Nothing uncomfortable shaded his voice, though he shivered, clearly grown uncomfortable with the morning’s chills, the longer they stood talking.

Jon stepped closer to him, turned to block the wind with his back. “What I know is that my family is indebted to yours.”

“Your Grace, I am flattered,” Baelish responded immediately. Behind his eyes, Jon was sure that the man was calculating the price he could extract for all the favors he was doing them. Going South put him in danger, would bring him close to people he had worked alongside for long years and since betrayed.

“It is a surprise, that you would place such faith in me,” Baelish continued. 

Jon replied, “It is not me who trusts. That is Lady Stark who speaks on your behalf. She knows your worth, and would see that other men know it as well.” 

Baelish nodded, still curiously gazing at him. “You and I have been at odds about this deputation to Dragonstone, but in my eyes, I believe it the sign of deepening trust, wouldn’t you say?” He looked away, stepped near the edge of the battlements. “That way,” he pointed north, the way Sansa had run once, escaping the bastard who’d tormented her, “lies a threat to me, to you, to the realm. We can face it together, Your Grace.”

“Good.” Jon shifted, eyes fixed in the distance. Talkers were liars, someone he’d thought he’d known had said once. Judge a man by his actions, and a woman too at that, he’d said another time. But he hadn’t talked. All he’d done was let him swing in the wind, dream of being a trueborn son until his every thought was consumed with it almost, and die. 

Jon clenched his fist together, thoughts swirling along the same path they’d stumbled through since Bran had told him the truth. The skin pulled taut on his burned hand. He looked down at it, then away north, once more. 

“Prepare yourself. We ride for White Harbor before the week is through.”


	12. Dutiful Subject

“So where is your mother precisely?” Arianne folded her hands between her knees, and watched as Tyene scurried around the small chamber throwing things haphazardly into a pack. It bulged, already straining at the seams.

“Or should I call her my Aunt? Seems like such a kind word, aunt. Something gentle, sweet, caring.”

Tyene spoke over her shoulder. “When,” she huffed, hopped up onto her toes straining to reach a fur cloak that’d been hastily stored on a high shelf, “when have you ever seen my mother be kind?”

“I certainly never thought she’d be a murderer. Kindness seemed rather easier to achieve,” Arianne replied. Her cousin turned at that, head tilted curiously. “In Dorne, we do not kill innocents. Yes?”

“If you think I’m going to answer that stupid question...,” Arianne trailed off as Tyene tossed the bag at her. She coughed, wincing. 

“Your father was not innocent. He was complicit. He allowed my father to die without ever getting out his chair.”

“You realize how stupid you sound? Of course he didn’t get out his chair! He couldn’t. Your father was his arms and legs. Your father was the extension of my father’s power. And he got himself killed for a stupid feud! Our aunt and her two children were dead. Dead for twenty years and he could not control himself. He may as well have jumped straight from a cliff, if he wanted to kill himself so badly,” Arianne sat, breathing hard. 

It had been months since she’d truly spoken to someone, and now that she had the chance to use her tongue, it seemed like the only things she could summon to her mind were words of anger. And how could they not be? The Sandsnakes had been her own sisters. They’d played together in the Water Gardens, groaned through lessons together, hunted boys together, and girls when they realized how much more fun it could be. All to end with her baby brother murdered, his betrothed poisoned, and their father and his legacy obliterated.

“Get up,” Tyene strode past her, grasping the pack as she went. She hammered on the door until it swung open. “The princess needs warmer clothes. Have her ready before the sun is full up.”

She walked out, pack swinging from her arm, and Arianne blinked at the bright space beyond the door frame. The door had not been opened so wide, in days beyond counting. After a moment, her own servants appeared in the emptiness, tremulous smiles on their faces, and Arianne all but crashed into them, arms reaching around as many of them as she could. She’d thought them dead, like her father. But they were here, and in whispers they told her of what had happened since Ellaria had wrested control of Dorne away from her father.

Ellaria, she learned, was likely dead. Arianne submitted to the scrubbing and the trimming and the clipping with something like pleasure then, and as she emerged from their attentions, spared a thought for her cousin, Tyene. 

* * *

“Where are we going?” Arianne, after having been kept below for hours, had slipped from the room her cousin’s guard had placed her in and come up on deck.

Tyene barely turned her head from where it lay nestled atop her arms on the rail. “As far North as North goes.”

Arianna hazarded a step forward. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?” Tyene replied then shifted around to face her, “Winterfell is the last civilized stop on the way to the Wall.”

“For _what_ are we going to Winterfell? What could possibly be there?” 

“Before I answer that, do you want to try it?” Tyene asked, a small smile lingered on her face, crinkled her eyes in the corners. Arianne could almost see the child she’d been, behind the snake she was now. 

“Try what?”

“Don’t play dumb. You’re angry. I’m angry. Your father’s dead, my father’s dead. Your mother _fucked_ off to Norvos, mine made me go home. If we do it now, we can relax later.”

Tyene’s smile widened nastily and suddenly Arianne, who’d intended on caution, on delicacy, on a swift and unforeseeable punishment, changed her mind. The deck shifted beneath her feet, but she’d been half raised on ships and knew how to balance herself. To work with the flow of the waves and not against them. Tyene was smaller, younger, and not nearly as well-trained as she thought she was. 

Arianna took two large steps toward her, hand drawing her blade as she went. Tyene wound underneath her arms, and slammed a fist into her belly. Arianne dropped, gasping, to her knees, her ears ringing with the force of the blow. Her blade clattered to the deck, and Tyene stopped its steady slide to the sea with a boot. 

“I’m angry. You’re angry. Either we live together or we die together. Once you’ve made up your mind,” Tyene bent and grasped the blade by the hilt, tucking it into her own belt, “come below and we will speak.”

* * *

“The King in the North can’t do anything for us. Our soldiers sailed off under your mother’s orders and got themselves drowned before they’d even put a toe on land. My father would never have allowed it. He would never—.”

“I am tired of hearing about what Uncle would or wouldn’t have done. I don’t care,” Tyene groaned. She tossed her head into her hands. “For the love of the gods, Uncle is gone. My father is gone. Your mother and my mother, and my sisters are gone. It’s up to us now.”

Arianne pushed back from the table and swayed as the ship crested a swell. She stumbled into the wall and pushed off of it to pace around the room. “Fine. You want us to have revenge. Then we shall. We’ll go to the North, and ask this King Jon to, if it please him, ally himself and his Northmen to what remains of our forces and what? March down to Kings Landing for nothing but the pleasure of seeing Cersei Lannister’s head on a spike?”

“He might,” Tyene replied, voice still muffled behind her hands. She raised her head, a little grin taking the place of her frustration, and Arianne froze across from her. 

“He might if his wife asked him to.”

“You want me to _marry_ Jon Snow?” Arianna laughed then, until tears came to the corners of her eyes. She reached up to wipe them away, Tyene still grinning at her. 

“Your father wanted you to marry a king. Better me than you.” 

“My father barely acknowledged my existence,” the words cut deep, all but erasing the mirth from a moment before. “He had his heir, his boy, his Trystane, there was no need for me. Even when I told him I wanted to marry, he wouldn’t agree.”

Tyene shook her head. “You have few wits, do you know that? I doubt even if I threw you at the king he would want to take you, and if it were not that Mother told me to fetch you North, I would have let you rot. Married himself myself if he was pretty enough.”

“Why didn’t you?” Arianne snarled.

“Because, idiot, this was Uncle’s one idea that wasn’t stupid. The Maesters say winter is coming; it’d be good to have an ally in the North.”

“And somehow being in the North, is going to save us from _dragons_?”

“No,” Tyene grinned, “but who says the dragons are going to survive?”

Arianne frowned at her, bewildered. Since leaving her chambers, nothing had been right. What had been immutable and steady was broken; the rock of her childhood had crumbled into dust. Her cousin chivvied her from thought to thought with barely enough time for her to gather herself and make a plan. It was driving her mad. 

“Who is going to kill them? How, even?” She brought herself to ask finally. 

Tyene leaned over the table toward her, eye shining brightly with her excitement. “Mother and the Spider had an idea.”

“The Spider! Your mother allied herself with the last Targaryen, Highgarden,” she spat the words, “and him? And your plan was to convince the King in the North that he should marry me so that the North and Dorne can fight Cersei Lannister together… You’ve all lost your minds. My father had the last bit of sense left in Dorne, and you all killed him,” she threw herself into the chair closest to Tyene and grabbed her arm at the wrist. It was her off hand, but it would do. 

“If you think,” she began again, digging her nails into the skin of her cousin’s arm, “that I am going to let you sell me like nothing more than a broodmare to some hairy northern clod so your mother can justify her murder of the rightful Prince, you are mad.”

“Your father gave birth to this plan, not my mother. But he moved slow, too slow. We simply sought to bring him to his goal with more speed. You were always part of this plan. Now it is time to do your duty, Arianne. Marry the clod, make him love you, make him swear to kill Cersei, kill the last Targaryen for what they did to us,” Tyene peeled her fingers away and grinned into her face as she did it. “Dornishwoman will be Queen, as it was meant to be. Your father will rest, and so will mine, when the Targaryens and the Lannisters are dead. And you get to be important, the way you always wanted to be.”

“I don’t want—.”

“Yes you did. Always complaining about Trystane and how father never loved you, and your Uncle wouldn’t teach you, and your mother left you behind. On and on and on,” Tyene tossed her head back, groaning. 

“Then what do you get out of it? Princess of Dorne?” Arianne stares at her, hard, already knowing that the answer would be yes.

“I want no title, Arianne. I will kill Cersei Lannister. I will find her Mountain and will do what my father could not. I break him. The rest belongs to you.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, and Arianne was the first to look away. “I hate you,” she said it to her knees. The ugly red fabric bunched in strange places across them and she couldn’t help but think of her father’s spilling. “You needn’t have killed him. What could he have done from a chair? His heart was broken just as much as yours.”

Tyene said nothing in reply. Then, “I didn’t want to kill him. Mother did. She wanted to kill everyone,” she paused for a breath, “even you. But I told her we couldn’t. I told her I wouldn’t marry any king or prince, especially not one whose castle is at the edge of the world.” She leaned over and laid her head into the hollow of her shoulder. Arianne shrugged, half-heartedly, but Tyene did not let herself be moved. 

“If she survived, and you aren’t married to the King in the North, she will kill you,” she went on in a whisper. “‘Bara and Nym aren’t here to help me, and Mother will have her way.”

Arianne mulled it for a moment the asked a different question. “But you were barely gone from Dragonstone. Cersei has hardly any ships. Who attacked you?”

“Greyjoys,” Tyene replied, disgustedly. 

“You were on a Greyjoy ship,” Arianne said on a question. 

“We’re not the only family that argues, stupid,” Tyene nestled her arms around Arianne’s shoulders. “Are we done fighting now? I’m tired and we’ll be at White Harbor in a day, maybe two. I’d rather sleep than talk to you anymore.”

“So you don’t know that your mother is dead. Or ‘Bara or Nym?” Arianne pressed.

“No, I don’t _know_. But until I see her again, I’ll act as though she is.” Tyene stood as she finished speaking and stripped away her coat and tossed it over the table. “I’m going to sleep. You don’t bother trying to stab me; you’ll hurt yourself.”

“I’m not going to stab you,” Arianne put as much scorn as she could into the words and then settled at the table with her head in her arms. She would marry the King. She’d help him, help them. And then she would kill all of them. When they had tasted the joy of their victory, she would strike, like her Uncle might have done, if he had lived to see what his daughters had done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this chapter back in (checks notes...) early May of this hell year, and I've agonized all summer over Arianne's voice, but since I can't just not continue the story, here it is T.T


	13. Things We Do For Love

There was a place down the alley, where there’d used to be a man selling pots of brown.She hadn’t wanted to know, and she still didn’t, what had gone into those bubbling pots.She hadn’t expected them to be gone.Down the length of what had been the alley, there was nothing.Sandstone jutted from the ground like miniature mountains.Here and there she could see torn cloth and rotted, old wood. 

Flea Bottom was dead.

She turned, looked back the way she had come, and like a wave the scent and the sound of people washed over her.Behind her, where the Sept of Baelor had been, was nothing.Where Father had been murdered was a void.Some part of her shied from it—the destruction of something that looked like it had been there for a thousand years, all the people killed who had done nothing wrong other than live in the place where’d they’d been born.Another part of her thought it was only right.Shrugging that thought off, she wrapped her cloak around her, obscuring the glint of Needle’s hilt.Ahead, the Red Keep loomed, and that was where she needed to be.

It was not as monstrous as she’d remembered it being. It was small, even without being in the shadow of the Great Sept. A tiny keep housing small, mean people who could no more protect themselves from her than Walder Frey or all of his sons.

* * *

“Are you goin’ or comin?”

Arya shuffled past the soldier who stood in the door, deeper into the pub, her face neatly in place. A girl like this, pretty, vivid, with a smart tongue and a strong arm was perfectly fit for an alehouse like this one. Where the Lannister soldiers took their drinks and gossiped loud, secure in the knowledge that they were invincible. Gold cloaks patrolled the streets, paid by Lannister gold. Themselves fitted in the crimson and gold plate, were marked out as the privileged. They did what they liked, no matter what the cost came to be for the poor folk under them. She’d seen it before. 

She whisked around the cramped room, watching for her mark. After a few weeks of stalking, one particular soldier had risen to the top. He was smaller than the rest, not that it truly mattered, and quiet where his mates were raucous and rowdy. They could not know what he was like, on the inside, he said too little for that. What’s more—he patrolled the inner keep. She kept the smile off her face, the first step hadn’t yet been completed yet. 

After a few more passes around the room, she found him. He was tucked against the wall, hanging onto a mug of ale and grinning as his mates made jests. She approached their table, swiped up the emptied flasks and set down a few more in their place. A glance over her shoulder had her catching the soldier as he took a drink. Their eyes met over the rim, and Arya brought out a bright smile for him. 

He brought the mug down hastily, the ale slopping over the rim. “Thank you,” he murmured as she offered him a cloth for the spill. 

“You can keep it,” she replied, and bent toward him to whisper, “that way I can come see you again.” She turned and walked away, already hearing the laughter rise in her wake. His mates had heard, of course. When she returned, they’d all but push him into her arms. 

She kept a close watch on him after that. He was terribly quiet. If he ran because she’d frightened him with her forwardness, it would mean starting over. Another month, or longer, before she could strike Cersei’s name from the list and go home. Another few months before she could see the wolfswood. Before she could hear Jon call her little sister once more. 

She bent over a table, scrubbing it hard so that she could feel the burn in her knuckles.

“You’ll be hurting yourself like that mistress. Unless the table did something to offend you?” Arya nearly jumped. The boy, the soldier had crept upon her on silent feet. She looked at him, worried suddenly. If he were stronger than she expected, or more clever somehow, this would be too hard.

“Ale and beer and wine don’t come out unless you give it your all. But you soldier lads don’t have to worry about things like that”, she replied, though she did slow her scrubbing by a hair.It was hot, hard work, and she could feel the flush taking root and spreading in the face. 

“I suppose you’ve seen a lot of our type,” he returned. 

Arya scoffed, “I’ve seen enough for a lifetime. Meeting one with the good sense his ma gave him to clean up his own mess. Well, that’s a rare dragon.”

He shifted uncomfortably beside her. “I came to give back your cloth.” He held it limply before her, and she halted in her scrubbing. The table was clean enough anyway. She plucked it from his hand, smiled into the blue eyes and froze as she looked at him head on. 

“You look like someone I knew once,” she said, softly.

He blinked at her, confusion all over his face. “Suppose that’s why you can stand one of my ilk then.”

“No. He was a bullheaded fool.” Arya looked down. It was just the eyes. The mouth was wrong, the hair curled, he was altogether too pretty. “Not like you.”

He laughed then, low and clear, and her heart jumped. “I’ll take that for a complement mistress.”

“You are full up with courtesy for a soldier. My name is Jeyne,” she smiled, waiting. After a moment, he fumbled a bow, and replied.

“Devyn.”

“Devyn,” she repeated back to him, and buried the twinge of discomfort as she placed her hand on his arm.

* * *

He laughed, the bright bell of a laugh again, and Arya reached up to shush him, fingers squeezing his lips together. He vibrated under her hand, muffled noises coming around her fingers.

“If you want me to see your barracks, then you have to stop laughing,” Arya hissed at him.

Devyn nodded, seriously, and she cautiously released her fingers. He chased them and kissed each fingertip, grinning as she tugged her hand away.Her skin burned, and it was a strange, heady sensation that flooded her.Before she could control it, Devyn had gripped her hand and pulled her onward. 

They tumbled into his quarters, and the part of her that wasn’t giddily laughing surveyed the room in a quick flash.The stacked beds, the one settle, the hearth with hooks for their sword belts all around it.It was a home, not the poorly kept hovel she’d half-expected after hearing his stories for weeks on end.

He trailed his fingers over the ties of her dress, lingering along her collarbones.“Are you sure? We don’t have to.” 

“Seven save me from a gentle man,” Arya murmured and laughed up at him when he dropped his hand. She took it, placing it back on her shoulders. “Kiss me you idiot.”

Devin bit his lip for a moment, then leaned close, hesitating. Arya looked into his eyes. They were blue as the summer sky. So when he finally pressed his lips to hers, she moved into him, let him wrap his arms about her and raised her own to his neck. 

The blade, neatly balanced in her hand, glinted in the light of the fire. She could almost feel in her own body, the slice of the blade as it slid home. The blood would spill, and he would have received the gift. And she would be a step closer to scratching another name off her list, as she was meant to. 

Death had marked him for this moment with her, she might have thought once, before she knew who she was. The gods had saved him for this sacrifice, a septon might have said. But her gods were the ones of the wolfswood. They watched and listened. They did no choosing, but placed the choice in your hand.

It was strange then, that as Devyn nuzzled his lips into her neck, and she raised the blade high, she struck him with the haft and not the tip. He slid through her arms, like a foal that hadn’t quite learned how to walk. He stared up at her, the summer eyes blinking slowly. He opened his mouth, but Arya pressed close and shushed him. 

“Sorry,” she offered. “I changed my mind.” She turned from him then, sweeping the room once more. There would be a spot where the walls, or even the floor, could come free. She traced the wall around the hearth and crowed inwardly as she found the seam. Arya dug into a pocket of her smock and pulled free a powder, and raised it to her nose, eyes unfocusing from force of habit. It was the correct one. She hustled around then, and poured the powder and some wine into the first goblet she could find. He’d not remember much about the night. As she fed him the mixture, she looked for and found his coins. He’d call her a whore and a thief and be done with it. 

When the tincture had done its work, she laid him out onto the floor, and closed the summer eyes. He had been a summer child, truly. How he had survived even this long into Winter had baffled her, these many weeks. With luck, he would survive a few more.

* * *

She’d heard, wearing this maid’s face, that even since her brother returned, the Queen summoned others to serve her in her chambers. None too old, though a few desperate young, and each of them as far from her coloring as could be. As though she wished no mischance whisper to ensnare her as had happened before. She seemed not to remember at all that the Faithful were all dead by her hand. 

Today, had been different.Her brother had gone to her chambers, in the bright light of day, ignoring or perhaps not even hearing how the whispers came in his wake.Yet, after a great row, heard echoing down the halls of her tower, the great Jaime Lannister had left Kings Landing, riding north along the kingsroad.

“Her grace broke near every bit of glass in the tower, and I said to Pypa that if she weren’t careful she’d end up with a bit of glass in her heel or suchlike, and Seven help us if a moment later the great beast hadn’t picked her up like a child and taken her off to the half maester.” Flour rose mistily into the air as Arya turned over the dough. Pasties, stuffed with sausage and onions, were the queen’s special requests for the day. Shyra, forgetful woman that she was, hardly noticed her helping, as intent as she was on a story that she’d had at fourth hand. 

“Was he able to get the glass free?” It was a struggle to put the right amount of worry in her voice. Her fingers worked at the dough, a moment more, then she settled onto her stool as it rested. 

“The poor dear howled orders the whole time, my Gerwin told me later. You know the maester chose him as an especial student?” The queen’s cook beamed at her until Arya smiled and nodded.

“Did he hear something?” Arya stood again and reached for a knife. She sliced carefully, peeling off long strips, and waited.

“Dear me yes. A troop of them golden knights from the Free Cities are to follow the Kingslayer to the North. Another troop to meet that Littlefinger when he sails from Dragonstone. My Gerwin,” she leaned close and whispered the rest, “says that the maester is begging the queen to rest. As a woman gets older, carrying a babe is hard.”

A babe. She thought of Rickon then, with his reddened cheeks and great gummy mouth with its one lonesome tooth yawning up at her, then quashed the memory before the rest of it could play in her mind. “Is it him,” Arya glanced about quickly, “who’s the father? Is that why her brother left?”

Shyra grinned at her, “You are a quick little thing. Some say it’s the Kingslayer. Only the gods in their mercy know.” She broke off and bent over the bench to look at the dough. “By the Seven, what a mess this is, child. My sister said you were a good worker, but you haven’t any magic at baking do you?”

Arya peered at the strips of dough, too. They’d gone bubbly, and oddly streaked with white. “You toss that away and start again. Her Grace will be having the right taste or it’ll be your hide not mine that she takes it out of.” She shifted away, and Arya gazed at the waste. She should’ve asked Hot Pie how to make a pasty before she’d ridden. And before she’d killed her, the Waif how to make a poison taste sweet.


	14. Sit By The Fire

“How can I leave you unguarded in this place? Unsafe, unhappy, and alone.” He did not approach her, but closed and barred the door and leaned against it. 

Sansa watched him from the corner of her eye and made no response. He would say more if she held her tongue. What she needed from him was for him to speak. His silences were more untrustworthy than his words. His silences were when he was at his most dangerous. Most unpredictable. 

“My love,” his voice rumbled and her stomach clenched. She sat before her legs betrayed her, hating that even yet she was under his thumb. He smiled for a brief moment, shifting against the door until his hands were hidden behind his back. “My love, if you want me to go, I will. Only say the word, and it will be done.” 

“I don’t wish for you to be gone,” she said, and prayed, she who never prayed anymore, that he would not hear the lie. “But if you do not, I fear my brother will fail. If he fails, there will be nowhere we can go that will be safe from the Night King.” 

“You trust your brother’s abilities so little, but believe his tale about this Night King?” he asked. 

“Jon doesn’t lie. Not about something like this.” Sansa replied. He shook his head, as though disappointed.

“You’ve forgotten what I’ve taught you so quickly? All men lie Sansa. Even fools like your brother.” 

“That is why I am asking you to go. Because he is a fool, and the North chose him to lead them, so his life must be preserved,” The words tripped off her tongue like the prayers she had sung as a girl in the sept beside her lady mother. 

He replied musingly, “They named him. Never thinking that there was another choice. He need not stand in your way.” He moved toward her then, came to perch on the table, one leg swinging. “Let me clear him from your path sweetling.” 

He grasped her hand, pulled her glove off, one finger at a time until he could press a kiss against the back of her hand. His eyes met hers, and whatever he saw in her gaze brought out his knife sharp smile again. 

“I thought you meant to make amends,” Sansa retracted her hand, picked up her glove and slid it on as though her heart wasn’t near to bursting with fear. She stood, very close to him, watching his eyes as he weighed his choices. 

“I shall. Believe me when I say I shall,” he repeated. He slid from the table and walked away, unbarring the door as though it was of no moment that he had trapped her within her own solar. As if he did not know the tack her mind would take. As if she would not remember that he had known what Ramsay was and sold her anyway. 

“I will believe it when I see it,” she said to his back, her voice as firm and as unwavering as she could make it. Her hands trembled, and she squeezed them together over her belly to still them. 

“What will you accept?” he asked quietly. 

“I have told you what I desire Lord Baelish. Carry it out.” 

He faced her, one half of him hidden by the shadows of the room. “Then will you be happy?” 

“Happiness is not a requirement. Nor is my happiness your concern. But,” she raised a hand as he opened his mouth to speak, “if you go and return, I will be safe.” 

“Then I will go.” He bowed and slipped out of the door, swinging it closed behind him. Sansa sank into her chair, boneless and trembling. 

* * *

Dust danced in the pale light of the sun stealing in through the windows.Dawn had come, and with it the noise of the castle had risen gradually.The grooms called to each other, groaning cheerfully about the cold.Maids shuffled through the halls, skirts whispering much as they did. 

The few, pale yellow shafts of light painted squares and triangles over Bran’s cheeks, and she watched Jon hover a hand between Bran’s face and the window, a kiss away from brushing his cheek.Ghost leapt onto the bedcovers, the mattress shifting under his weight, and Sansa roused herself.Jon’s gaze flickered to hers.He looked away after a moment and buried his fingers in the wolf’s ruff.

“Care for them well, Ghost.Stay.”He rose then and walked from the room, and Sansa hurried to follow him.There was only to be her and Bran and Ghost now.Her lady Mother was gone, Father too.No one remained to protect their home but the two of them.And the third, she had forced away herself. 

Jon’s cloak swung ahead of her, growing distant, and she followed it, anxious.If this was to be last time, she must find a way to leave him a good memory.But all she could think of was the panic that had gripped her every night since Littlefinger had decided to ride South.Poison, might be his choice this time.Or an uprising, a betrayal.Worse still was the creeping fear that perhaps he had meant to ride South all along and what awaited Jon was the headsman’s blade.She buried the thought, pushed it away with all her might, and followed Jon as he led them out onto the battlements.

He leaned against the stone, arms crossed over his chest, and Sansa settled to watch the moors, as he did.The road, a faint black speck, stretched away into the horizon.She could imagine it in her head, just as it had been when she’d still been a silly girl.The horses, and the knights, and the Queen in all her golden beauty. 

“I don’t want you to go,” she found herself saying. 

Jon did not reply but he faced her, a frown drawing his mouth into a tight line. 

“I know.It is I who told you to go,” Sansa said, hot embarrassment setting her belly to churning. 

Jon shook his head.“Wolkan gave this to me before I came to see Bran.”He passed her a scroll, and spoke as she read it.“Sam has written to Daenerys Targaryen, Olenna Tyrell, the Martells, and your mother’s family.He has asked them to send their forces North to prepare for the fight against the Night King.Then he means us to lead the fight against Cersei.”

“Has he lost his mind?” Sansa asked, thrown entirely out of her fear. 

Jon laughed and for a brief shining moment the gloom that haunted him lifted.“He has an abundance of wits, I’m sure he’d like me to tell you,” he paused, and turned a half-smile upon her, “and I will tell you that this is likely only the half of it.You will have you a castle full of trouble.Guard yourself well, and don’t… don’t worry about me.”

“You may be king now, but —,” Sansa began and stopped, wincing.It was easy, sometimes, to forget.He was Jon, after all.Her cousin, her half-brother; it didn’t matter, not truly.He belonged to Winterfell and the North, no matter who had been his father.To think otherwise was the stuff of nightmares. 

“Don’t let it trouble you, if you can,” Jon offered.“It’s easier, if you like, to think of me as a bastard.That’s what he raised me to be.”His voice roughened, strengthened, with the Northern burr. 

What could she offer against that?It was the truth, after all.“It saved you.His sister’s son.It kept you alive.He lost her to Rhaegar, but he didn’t lose you.” 

Jon looked to her, searchingly, and Sansa found a smile for him. Then they seemed to move toward each other in the same breath, and if her heart leapt into her throat as his arms came around her waist, if her spine tingled where his fingertips pressed, Jon seemed not to know it.He pulled away and turned for the stairs, twisting back to look on her as she called to him. 

“Jon.Winterfell is our home. _Your_ home.Come back to it.”

“I will,” Jon replied. 

Then, she was alone. 

* * *

When they were gone and the stream of horses, dark on the icy white moors faded into the distance, she’d buried the image of his face turned to hers for a last farewell deep and moved to settle the affairs of the castle swiftly. The more she worked, the less her mind could dwell. 

Bran needed servants of his own, and she found a strong, cheerful older couple to care for his need. To test his food, she summoned Wolkan to devise a surreptitious way for her. It would not do to display her complete lack of trust in her people every night in the hall at supper. Yet she could not leave anything to chance. Especially as the longer Bran was home, the less of him there seemed to be. 

He left her, walking in memories only he could see, and only rarely could share. Sometimes, sitting by his side as he traveled, she wished that she could join him. There was so little she remembered of her lady Mother, of Father, even of Arya and Robb and Rickon. She wanted those memories, and not the sickly nauseating ones of Littlefinger and Ramsay that plagued her sleep. 

She had thought of asking Wolkan for the sweetsleep, but as much as it tempted her, she feared it. What if she fell into a dream and could not wake? As it was, she’d taken to walking the corridors with Ghost late into the evenings, until she was too exhausted to walk any longer. She knew that there was comment on it, but it seemed that they believed her in the way of encouraging them with the presence of herself and the king’s direwolf. 

She would not gainsay them. It worked to her advantage to appear tireless, that they did not see how glad she was that Jon had insisted on Davos remaining after all. Without him, she might not have slept at all. He guarded her, in small ways, no less important than the sword Brienne wielded that was a piece of Father’s Ice. 

Today, a month after Jon had scratched off a letter to her to tell her they had attained White Harbor and sailed South, she was doubly glad of him.For a Martell of Dorne stood in the hall with her cousin, both of them underdressed and half frozen. 

“Come, warm yourselves, be welcome.” Sansa stood from her chair as a serving girl brought them bread and salt and spiced wine. They gulped it down, the two girls and their ragged escort. When they had finished and begun to look alive once more, Sansa looked to Davos. 

“Well ladies, welcome to Winterfell. I can’t imagine you’re here for the pleasure of our company,” he began. He waved them into chairs, then retreated to her side. Nearby, Brienne hovered protectively. 

“My cousin and I have come to speak to this King in the North,” said the younger one. She had a roving eye, and if she hadn’t been weary with cold, probably would’ve moved about the room unceasingly. 

“I don’t think that’s you,” she finished and downed another swallow of wine. 

Sansa tapped her fingers along the arm of her chair. Then, “I am the king’s sister, the lady of Winterfell. You may call me Lady Stark, if it please you. This is Ser Davos, and the lady Brienne. How shall we address you?” 

The younger opened her mouth, something saucy and ill-thought out about to emerge, no doubt. The elder reached a hand toward her and shook her head. 

“I am Arianne of House Martell, daughter of the Prince Doran,” she pointed toward the other girl, “this is the natural daughter of my uncle Oberyn, Tyene.” 

Bastards were treated well in Dorne, Sansa had heard once, long ago. Sansa smiled at them both and stood. They stumbled to their feet belatedly. 

“Well met. We shall see you to chambers fit for you and your servants.” Sansa walked away, gesturing for Davos to follow her. 

When they were away and nearly to Bran’s chambers, Davos spoke. “Since they’re wanting Jon and have come all this way, they’ll have something to put before you my lady.” 

“I don’t doubt they will,” Sansa replied and stopped, one hand on the door. “We shall speak with them privately in the morning. For tonight, make sure no one speaks a word to them that isn’t about settling in.” 

“Certainly. Will young Bran be joining us?” 

Sansa frowned, “That is my question. If not, you and I will accomplish what we must just as well.” 

He nodded, “Of course. Good night to you my lady.” 

“And you, Ser Davos.” 

Sansa watched him retreat down the hall. Once he was full gone, she pushed open the door.Bran, his eyes brown and not white, looked toward her, a small smile flitting over his face. “I hoped you might come.” 

“And I hoped you might be... awake for us to talk,” Sansa returned. She closed the door and came to sit near the fire with him. In the silence, but for the fire crackling, she realized that silence had become intolerable for her. She longed for noise, even if only the irritating one of Jon clearing his throat. Or the sound of leathers creaking, boots striking the floor as he paced the room. His laugh, rare though it was, that she missed most of all. 

She looked at Bran then, and found him gazing at her. He smiled again, a sad dip tucking his mouth into a crooked line. “It will never be the same. You knew that without me saying it. Jon is in the South, where his blood and his duty have taken him.” 

“We are his blood,” Sansa replied, tartly, not showing the shudder that gripped her as he divined her thoughts yet again.

“So we are,” Bran sighed. “Duty or love, which do you think Jon would choose?” 

“Why do you ask?” 

“Because he faces a choice, and the better I understand him, the easier it is to plan.” 

Sansa shook her head. Bran confused her; each time they spoke he was more of a riddle, not less. And she feared, in a vague, fearsome sort of way, that one day he would be impenetrable. That her brother would never return. 

She turned the subject. “Tell me if your friend, your Meera, has returned safely home.” 

“She has, two days hence. She and her father met on the shore, and since then they have hidden themselves away. They mourn,” he murmured, “but they live. Just as we do.” 

“Will she return do you think?” Sansa asked. 

“No, I think not. She gave more of herself for me, to me, than I think she knew she could give. She will rest. Perhaps when she has children of her own, we may see her once more.” He smiled, bitterly. Then the expression faded as though it had never been. 

“It is good that she has her father beside her. The gods know I wish for ours often enough. He would know what to do, what to say. He would know what to do with these two Martells come to see Jon.” Sansa sighed. 

“Perhaps,” Bran replied, “and perhaps not. Father, for all his gifts, did not have your skill.You inspire love, devotion, even in the most twisted of souls.” 

“All the people _devoted_ to me were foul.” Sansa felt her throat grow tight, and she swallowed hard against the gorge rising in her belly. 

“Yes,” he replied in a voice cold and distant. “They were.” 

“I must go.” Sansa stood, hands fisting in her skirts, even as she tried to force them open. She would find Ghost. He would walk with her, and he would speak no words that would summon her demons. 

“You will be well Sansa,” Bran said as she opened the door. “Of all of us, our parents trained you best for you must do.” 

* * *

“That is quite amusing. And about as unreasonable,” Sansa leaned over the table, one finger sweeping away all the carved markers on the map that lay unrolled over its surface. 

They’d been conversing for the better part of an hour. And all on the same topic. Whether or not Jon would or would not swear fealty to Targaryen or Lannister. The answer, she had told them in half a hundred ways, was irrelevant.The fight over the Iron Throne had no bearing on the doings of the North. Both queens were like as not going to destroy each other. Then the North would be truly free. 

These Martells did not see how Jon meant to defy Daenerys without their help. 

Sansa rubbed a finger over her lips. Arianne settled back in her chair, then spoke to her more quietly, than she had done all morning. “My lady, we have two tasks, and we cannot do them alone. We wish for your help.” 

“I cannot give you what you seek. My king is away pursuing our own ends. The North will take no part in this struggle for the Iron Throne,” Sansa paused. “I know you have traveled long leagues and this answer must frustrate you. Yet you must understand that the king is doing what he must to protect the North. He has no other care but that alone.” 

“Do the Starks have no sense of loyalty? Are you all so cold, even when it one of your own blood who has been dishonorably murdered, their bodies defiled, their memory desecrated?” Tyene stood, hands gripped tight around the table’s edge. “Are you all such cowards?” 

Sansa watched her, then replied, keeping her voice low. “It is not cowardice to consider the good of the realm before personal vengeance. There is a time for revenge, and that time is not now.” 

“Then when?” Arianne asked, “When will the Starks turn their gazes from their frozen navels and see that the rest of the kingdoms have need of them. How can the realms expect us alone to stand against the Lannisters? We tried that once, and got killed for it.” 

“Perhaps when Summer comes,” Sansa replied, and did not trouble to hide her disdain. Her family had tried protecting the realms. Had died for honor, had suffered for championing the truth. Had been broken like a ship on the rocks. And these two dared to come into her home and castigate them for attempting to defend the realms again, from a far greater threat.

“You are welcome to stay or leave, whenever you wish.Tell whoever sent you that the North defends the realms as it always has, from Winterfell.It is here we will remain.”

“We were not sent! We wish for your help to avenge our aunt, Elia, and yours too,” the younger girl came stomping halfway around table. “Or don’t you remember what Rhaegar Targaryen did to your family?”

Sansa turned her gaze from the girl and looked to her cousin.Her chest was tight, but she spoke through it, “There is hardly a moment that goes by that we do not think on what the Mad King and his son did to our family.If, by your words, you mean to stir up the ghosts of the past, you ought to find yourselves well away from Winterfell by tomorrow.We have no time and no use for those words here.”She pressed herself upward, locked her knees under her, and waited. 

The two girls rose too, the younger’s lip jutting out. When they were gone, the door slamming closed behind them, Sansa sank into her chair, and buried her face into her arms. If they knew, or if somehow it became known, if people began to talk, there would be no stopping it. Even without proof, tongues would wag, and Jon would return to find that he had lost his Northern kingdom.

Her hands balled into fists, and she forced herself upward. Her lady Mother had sailed in far rougher seas. She would not have been afraid of two girls attempting a rough sort of wooing.

Neither would she be.


	15. Vivisection of the Soul

“You are looking well, considering,” Petyr offered. Varys’ doughy face had become lined and printed.

“Considering what, exactly?” Varys snuck a handful of nuts from a sleeve and nibbled on it, eyes averted. It was another change. 

Petyr looked about them. The seas crashing below, the strand littered with Dothraki and Unsullied soldiers preparing to sail. “I always wondered, do eunuchs age like other men? I once had a friend who had preference for them.” 

“Them,” Varys replied, scoffing, “I have had quite enough of eunuch jests from Tyrion Lannister. I had hoped for better from you. Your time in the North seems to have dulled your wits after all.” 

“I have become accustomed to their rough ways, certainly. And you? Are you accustomed to the ways of the dragon queen?” 

“What is there to become accustomed to? She, like all rulers, has an inflated sense of her intelligence. For all that, she does well enough,” he brushed his hands off and tucked them away. 

“What about your Jon Snow? Is he as much a fool as his father?” 

Varys laid his eyes upon him then. True curiosity was there to read in his face. It made sense, of course. Like most bastards, little was ever said of them. If it were not for this bastard’s luck, he never would’ve been more than a faceless man of the Nights Watch. 

“Ned Stark’s bastard is as they say. An honorable man just like all of the rest of his family,” Petyr straightened his sleeves. “A pretty face, an empty head.” 

“Really? Unfortunate. And his sister? How fares the lady Sansa?” Vary swung around him, began walking up the steps toward the castle. 

“She, too, is well,” Petyr followed, gave one last glance at the expanse of soldiers and ships. The North and the Vale, and, if Tully stirred himself, the Riverlands combined would not match this might. And, yet, they were losing. It was obvious from Varys’ openness, the lines on his face, the absence of Tyrion. Olenna Tyrell was dead, Highgarden was gone. The remnant of the legitimate line of Dorne was a girl who no one had seen since her father’d been murdered. The main branch of the Greyjoy’s were lost at sea, by all accounts. 

“Ah here they are,” Varys said, and indeed he was right. The bastard, with Tyrion, had emerged from the castle doors and stood outside them. From here he could not see their expressions, but the words were clear enough. 

“Only a man with no other options would come here. I am quite sane, my lord.I just haven’t got any other options Tyrion. I must have her dragonglass, and soon. My people’s lives depend upon it.” 

“Only a fool would go about it as you have done.What did you expect her to say?Did you truly think that she would believe you?”

The bastard turned away, frustration obvious in the line of his body.He stiffened further as he caught sight of Varys and himself. Petyr walked forward the last few steps until the four of them formed a little unit.The Dothraki guarding the doors, swung them shut. 

“I hope all is well my king?” he asked, keeping his voice mild.

“Baelish, you old snake.I would never have gambled on _you_ coming _here_ ,” Tyrion cut in.Petyr smiled, minutely. 

“Ah you know me so little, my lord.I have never quailed at danger, and besides,” he inclined his head toward Jon, “what safer place can there be other than by my king’s side?” 

Tyrion surveyed him for a moment, then shrugged.“Her grace has asked me to show you to your chambers, but I thought you might like to see our little island fortress first.There is this delightful cliff where the dragons have made their lair.”

“Really, lair,” Varys scoffed.The two of them moved off down the steps.Himself, he watched them go, curious why the bastard should hesitate beside him.They’d hardly spoken more than a handful of words a day during their travel.The cold of the ride from Winterfell had made talking a chore, and once aboard the ship, the boy settled himself beside the oarsmen and sailors.He’d come to table each evening more salt-encrusted than the last.Only when they’d been within sight of Dragonstone had he spent time in his cabin righting his appearance.All of it worked to keep the two of them apart.And to make all of the men, his. 

Not but that Petyr hadn’t spent his time wisely.

“Your Grace, was there something you wished to say?” Petyr asked, taking a small step forward to face the boy.

“Yes,” Jon sighed explosively.“You have been an envoy many times, making decisions in the name of your king.I came alongside because she invited me, but in truth, this is not my battlefield.”He began to descend the steps hastily, clearly trying to keep Varys and Tyrion in sight.“I need advice,” he finished.

“What I can do, I will,” Petyr replied.“Tell me, what did she ask of you in exchange for the dragonglass?”

“An oath of loyalty to her and the Iron Throne, once she’d claimed it.”

“And you refused her this oath?” Petyr asked, then answered the question himself, “Of course you did.Then the queen lost her temper, and you lost yours.Was that the way of it?”

“Aye.” 

Petyr bit back a laugh.The Starks were almost endearing, this one especially, in their blind adherence to old rules.But like all old things that refused to change as the game did, they were bound to fail. 

“Rather than advice, perhaps a different sort of help.”The boy stopped then, and turned to him curiously.“Let me speak to her on your behalf.It is, as you say, my battlefield.”

* * *

“My Hand tells me that you and I should speak.”

The girl’s voice rumbled, low, and accentless.Whoever had the teaching of her had done their work well.Not a hint of the Free Cities lingered around any of the words she spoke.She had the straight back and confidence of the lady of a great house, as well. 

“Tyrion Lannister often speaks the truth, Your Grace.”

“Often?” the girl’s face broke into a smile. “You must not like him especially well.”

“Whether I like him or no, for a commoner such as myself, matters little.”

“Commoner,” she repeated his words, then faced him fully. “Are you not Lord of Harrenhal, Protector of the Vale?”

“Titles, Your Grace. And as they are disputed by Cersei Lannister, and I am sworn to the King in the North, quite meaningless. I have no highborn blood.”

“Yet you have made much from nothing, it would seem.” She looked him over for a moment more, then her face shuttered. “What shall we speak of other than titles?”

“Jon Snow told you a tale, at your first meeting. A fantasy,” Petyr pressed his palms together, one finger rubbing at the back of his rings. “Or did you believe him?”

“Do you believe him?” She countered. “He is your king is he not?”

“Yes, he is. Yet, kings are not like other men. They see things that normal men cannot. They achieve things that normal men cannot. It is not my place to believe or disbelieve. I obey. And as I obey, I prosper.”

“Then you wish for trade?” She crossed her arms and leaned deeper into the stone embrasure. 

Petyr bowed, slightly. She was as beautiful as they had said, and as easy to read. 

“Then tell me how I might stand to gain from allowing Jon Snow to mine my dragonglass,” she said and beckoned for him to follow her up and into the castle. “He brought a paltry number of soldiers, barely any weaponry, and professed that if I wished to be allies he was my man, but saw no need to affirm our relationship with his oath.”

“Northerners are proud Your Grace. They need inducement and coddling, as any other lordling might.”

She peered at him, waiting. 

“You give him the dragonglass without charge and tell him he may join his forces to yours to defeat Cersei if he wishes, and he and all the rest of the North will be yours from this time to the end of time. Do him a kindness, and he will repay you sevenfold.”

She led them into the throne room, steadily walking past the great, raised chair and into the darkness beyond. Petyr followed, curious. 

Through rough hewn corridor and around a bend, the candles jumping in the breeze, and then he walked into bright light. The sea crashed, gulls wheeling overhead, and for as far as the eye could sea, were ships. 

“You believe that I can win, without bringing any other houses to my side?” she asked. Petyr searched the room for her, and realized that both Varys and Tyrion were there, too. He found her finally, beside the fire.

“You have dragons, Your Grace. What need have you of men?” 

She stared at him, suspicious.He smiled at her and found a seat at the table.He lounged in it, laying back, and watched them.“I presume there is a suitor at hand.”He left the sentence where it lay and waited. 

“Of sorts,” Tyrion replied for the girl.He grimaced and then found a seat of his own.“We would prefer, I believe, to have someone more amenable to the people of Westeros.And to the queen herself.” 

The queen stared at them all, a slip of a girl in truth, with her thoughts clear on her face.“I am no broodmare,” was all of her reply.She turned her back on them all to look out upon the sea. 

“No, Your Grace, you are not.And any man who seek to make you so is a fool and not to be trusted.If you have one such by your side, be rid of him, if you will pardon me speaking plainly.Be rid of him and ensure that whoever comes after him is more malleable to your rule,” Petyr settled more comfortably in his chair.She had seen Jon Snow, and now whomever had near seduced her had their flaws shown for what they were.The bastard was an irritant, but no man could call him lesser choice than the other few high lords that remained.

“Malleable,” Tyrion spoke quietly and turned his face toward the queen.“There is no such person in Westeros, Your Grace.The only malleable subject is a broken one.You came to free us, not grind us beneath your boot.Lord Baelish is a man more concerned with money, rather than the ills of the people of this country.He buys and sells—.”

“I came,” she controlled the anger in her voice after a moment, “to rule.If that means I must break some unruly subjects, then so it must be.I will start with this Euron Greyjoy.He plagues me, and I would remedy that.”She turned and swept toward the table.“If you and your King in the North mean to ally yourself to me, my lord, if you mean to pledge your loyalty to my banner, then this is no idle position.Your minds are what I have need of.Even more than your swords.”

“It would please me to serve you Your Grace. I am sure my king will feel the same,” Petyr rose and came down the length of the table toward her. “Our minds, and whatever else you desire, are yours to command.” 

She understood him, it was plain to see. No maiden was this girl. A Dothraki horselord for a husband, they had said. No doubt he had broken her too. 

“Then what do you suggest?” she asked. 

“A small battle, might win you your war. You lost Highgarden to Lord Tyrion’s brother. With all the wealth of the Reach in tow, it will be some days until they come within sight of Kings Landing,” Petyr moved away from her, turned to face Tyrion, and smiled where the girl could not see. 

“Euron Greyjoy wishes to earn your hand. Send him to take back the gold and goods the Lannisters stole from you. Send them a message, Your Grace. I am sure there will be a way in the heat of battle to see that Euron does not return.” 

Tyrion stared at him, the fool’s eyes nearly quivering in their sockets. The slice over his nose was visible, just barely. 

“My Queen, I would advise caution. Euron Greyjoy is a shade more dangerous than Lord Baelish would have you believe. He will not simply sail for Kings Landing, without any guarantee of reward,” Varys spoke quietly from beside the fire.

“What then? Keep him here and hope that he does not decide to take what has not been given?” The girl snapped the words. 

“Who is to say he would not sail? Nor fight? The Greyjoys live for battle, for stealing what does not belong to them. Give him a choice. A share in the prizes for his men in battle or you shall have your dragons burn his ships to cinders.” 

The room fell silent in the wake of his words, as it should. They all had danced around it. The girl, no doubt, was afraid that if she brought it forward, her counselors would be reminded of the Mad King. Varys because he had served the Mad King well. He would be leery of using fire on any city in the realm. Tyrion, simply, was an idealistic, callow youth, for all that he pretended to be of his father’s caliber. 

“Her Grace,” Tyrion began, gratingly, “is not here to turn cities to ash, nor armies, nor men.” 

“Why?” Petyr asked, throwing his hands wide. “You must only do it once, and they will never stand against you again.” 

Varys shifted, he could see it just from the corner of his eye. The girl, she gazed at him, as though her mind had wandered far afield from the room they were in. 

“And you Baelish? Where will you and your Jon Snow be while the queen unfurls this plan?” Varys asked. His voice was shaded, lightly, with mockery. 

“My lord, I shall be in Kings Landing, distracting Cersei and ensuring that she agrees to a surrender. The city shall be my king’s betrothal gift to you, Your Grace, if that is your wish.” Petyr spoke, reverently, direct to the girl, and was rewarded when she smiled.

* * *

“Things so dissimilar have rarely gotten along so jolly and well.” Varys murmured beside him. 

Petyr held back a flippant reply. What business was it of his if his old friend’s eyesight had diminished so terribly. He would be better to thank the gods, silently and well. Across the table, the Targaryen and the mad Greyjoy sat, the girl’s face flushed, his intent. 

“They do appear to have found a common thread. One wonders what it could be.” Petyr chanced a sip at the wine, then set it aside.Overmuch sweet. 

Varys chuckled.“I am sure you are well aware of the common thread they’ve found.You,” he paused as Daenerys’ serving girl, Missandei, circled behind them to take her seat.He leaned close and their eyes met, as Varys reached for the wine flask.“I must admit, you have not lost your touch for such things.I quite admire your skill.”

“And I admire yours,” Petyr raised his cup when Varys did, wetting his lips only slightly.“To find yourself at the side of such a beautiful girl, with such power behind her, such wealth.You and your friends must have been delighted to find such a strong common thread to climb.”

Varys set his cup upon the table, with a sharp click of metal upon wood.His eyes darted around the room, and Petyr followed his look.Lannister, swilling the wine, sat slumped over the board though he threw watery glances at Daenerys and Euron every so often.Petyr leaned over until he there was little chance that he would be overheard.“You throw the dice so often, my lord.Yet you win so little.I hope you will forgive me giving you a piece of advice,” he paused, watching Varys’ brow and cheek firm and clench, the muscles bunching beneath the skin.“Close your purse strings and go home.This game is beyond you.”


End file.
